


Going Under

by shell



Series: Going Under [1]
Category: Hard Core Logo, Homicide: Life on the Street
Genre: Crossover, M/M, Slash, hurt comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-01-10
Updated: 2001-01-09
Packaged: 2017-10-02 05:35:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 76,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shell/pseuds/shell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim Bayliss, now an FBI agent, meets Billy Tallent just before going under cover in a fundamentalist Mormon compound.</p><p>Graphic description of violence, less graphic description of sexual abuse, some of it canon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Going Under

**Author's Note:**

> The first fanfiction I ever completed, and the start of an incredibly lengthy series filled with hurt comfort, schmoop, and a large helping of the Id Vortex. It's got alternating first person present POV, the characterization isn't the best, and it's got tears. It's old school slash, and even though I'm embarrassed by a lot of it now, I'm still proud to have written it.
> 
> Beta thanks to Beth, Gemini, Cat Moran, Kit, and Ardent.

**Prologue**

Tonight was his father's turn at Martha's trailer. Sometimes he changed his routine, but tonight he'd seen him head right from the church, and that meant either Martha or Rachel--the trailers were a little sparse on that side of town, because the town square took up so much room. Sometimes his father visited more than one of his wives, but Eli wasn't going to think about that or he would never have the courage to leave.

Before the move from Big Water, before his mother turned into a pale, thin, frightened mouse, the two of them would go to Page every week to shop for groceries. They even went to St. George occasionally to have the car worked on. Once they went to Flagstaff.

He knew none of those cities had a tenth the population that Las Vegas did, but he didn't know how to comprehend that difference. He'd lived his whole life in two towns that together boasted fewer than a thousand people, and he'd been a little scared by the crowds on Beaver Street, all those hippie college students. He'd only been ten years old that day in Flag, five years ago. His mom had been stronger then, had stood up at town meetings, back when women were permitted at them, stood up to Eisen. So she'd snuck off and taken him to Flag with her, because a band she liked was headlining the fall music festival.

She'd only been 15 herself when Eli was born, and at 25 she was still full of attitude about the music she liked. His father called it devil's music and beat her when he found her listening to it. So she'd hiked out to the creek and hidden her cds and her boom box, and sometimes she'd take Eli with her to listen.

So they'd gone off one afternoon and driven south on 89 to go see Jenifur. The night had been cold, up in the San Francisco Peaks, and it had rained throughout the concert, but they'd stuck around, a little damp, until Jenifur hit the stage at the end. And now he was going to see them in Las Vegas.

He'd been planning to run for months now, years even, but he hadn't found the courage. He'd watched his mother, beaten down by her husband and repeated miscarriages, fade away. He'd snuck off to the creek as often as he dared, to listen to the cds still hidden there. He wanted to leave, almost did once, before his cousin Heather disappeared.

He hadn't spent much time with Heather before she found his hiding place by the creek. Yeah, she was his cousin, but half the town was his cousin, or brother, sister, uncle, aunt... He didn't really like any of his brothers or sisters. His mom had just had him--never managed to carry a pregnancy past the first couple months after he'd been born--and even though he'd grown up surrounded by half siblings, he'd always been a bit of a loner.  
Heather was a loner, too, went to the creek to escape, just like he did. Only she was escaping her new husband, the one who'd raped her starting when she was 10. Jacob Smith was one of the elders, and he'd decided she was going to be his a long time ago. She wasn't given any choice in the matter--no girl in Church Canyon was. He treated her nicely when she caught pregnant, left her alone for awhile, but beat her up after she miscarried, just like his dad beat his mom every time it happened to her.

He liked Heather, liked her a lot, but he never really touched her. She liked him too, told him so, but she held herself away from him. He used to dream about kissing her, but once, when she was crying, he'd gone to hug her and she'd pulled away, looking terrified. A lot of the girls in town were like that--frightened of any attention from a man or even a boy. The penalty for adultery was stoning, same for fornication, although the men were never punished, just the girls. He wanted Heather to know she could trust him, that he wouldn't do anything to hurt her, so he didn't touch her after that.

He told her about his mother, how she used to be. She listened to his music. She liked Jenifur, too. Then, one day, she told him she was going to run away.

They'd been meeting every few days at the creek for a couple months by then, usually talking about music or what was bad about the town, forbidden topics. Sometimes Heather brought another girl with her, but Eli tried to discourage that. Once Heather mentioned running away, though, she didn't bring anyone else, and that was all they talked about. They were going to run away together, maybe head to Las Vegas, maybe Phoenix. Somewhere big, where they could get lost, where his father and her husband would never find them. Someday, she promised, they'd see Jenifur in concert.

But Heather disappeared a couple days before the two of them were going to meet, planning to hike all night, make it to Page. He hoped she'd just left early, found some opportunity she couldn't pass up, but in his heart he knew she was dead. He'd gotten scared then, figured he'd wait until things calmed down before he tried to leave. Wasn't sure he had the guts to make any more plans.

That changed last month, when his father found him by the creek. Eli sat and listened, as he always did, to his mother's favorite song, then Heather's, sound low even on the headphones, but he hadn't heard his father approach until it was too late. He had pissed red for days from that beating, but he'd been beaten before. This time his father hadn't stopped at beating him. He'd made Eli and his mother watch while he destroyed everything she'd hidden, then beat her into unconsciousness. Eli'd thought he'd killed her this time for sure, and he ended up being right. His mother had still been alive after the beating, but without medical attention she'd died a slow, painful death.

He'd gotten beaten again today for not paying enough attention at church, but usually his father left him alone for a couple days after a beating--after all, there were a lot more Eisen wives and children in need of discipline--so he figured this was the night. Besides, Jenifur was playing in Las Vegas, one night only, the day after tomorrow, and he felt it would be a memorial to both of them if he went to the concert.

And if he ended up dead too, well, it was better than staying here.

****  
A month in Vegas, and I still wasn't used to the slot machines in the grocery stores. In casinos, bars, sure, even in the airport--but who in their right mind went to Stop &amp; Shop for bread, milk, and the slots, especially when they were available everywhere else? Sure, I went downstairs to the casino a few times, especially the first week, but the whole thing got boring pretty quickly. I'd always thought I'd love the casino scene. Maybe Quantico had changed me.

Quantico, yeah, that's what did it. Not everything that had happened in Baltimore, from the shooting to zen to Gee.... I kept other memories at bay with a lot of practice.

I'm still not sure how I ended up with the Feds. Wasn't sure it would last, either, but while I couldn't stomach Baltimore Homicide any more, I felt lost until I hooked back up with law enforcement. Let's face it--I don't know how to do anything else but be a cop. Eight months after Ryland, another six months after that, and I needed to get back to work. And the allure of travel, of going undercover, of escaping into another place and another person, was too strong to resist.

Mike gave them my name. They were looking to recruit new agents from police forces, to try to smooth the always rocky relationship between local cops and Effa Bee Eye, and in the wake of Gee's murder investigation, not to mention the fact that Mike had jumped ship and transferred out of the sacred Quantico brotherhood, they'd come to Baltimore to recruit.

Don't know how Mike knew this was what I needed--maybe he'd just come up with my name by chance--but the Feds took one look at my service record and recruited me with a vengeance. They seemed to find the combination of Mayor's Security Detail and what they called "the best Homicide team in the country" (maybe it used to be true, but no longer) a good one. Or maybe it was just that no one else was the slightest bit interested, after the way the Bureau had treated Mike when he was their official FBI liaison. So I'd gone from being Detective Bayliss to Special Agent Bayliss. Still caught myself trying to answer the phone "Homicide," though.  
Whatever the reason I was here, it didn't make sense to stand here woolgathering while Ben &amp; Jerry's Phish Food was about to melt in my bag, so I took off for the hotel. The Luxor, the pyramid, whose elevators move sideways and whose windows are at an angle. Vegas is a strange place.

****

I don't like Vegas. Despite the fact that it's fucking hot, fucking dry, and too fucking sunny (I never knew a place could be sunnier than LA, but Vegas qualifies) with scenery (natural and artificial) completely unlike the Canadian plains, sin city feels all too familiar. I'll wake up in the hotel and think I'm back in that damned band house, or worse yet that last night in Edmonton. Jesus. It's been over five years, and I've seen a fucking therapist, gotten straight, no more booze, steady paycheck, new agent (thank god I'll never have to talk to Festus again), actual small bungalow in the Hollywood Hills. Billy Fucking Hollywood, that's me. I never know when to expect it--the guilt, pain, and fear that makes me want to turn right around, go back into the casino, and get them to comp me (the big fucking rock star) some vodka. And some scotch. Couple of six packs. And send up a couple women while you're at it.

I shake my head, pull on my sunglasses, and light a cigarette with hands that only shake a little, just a little. Time to make the fucking donuts.

Show doesn't start until 9, but we still need to work on that riff on the new soon-to-be-hit single. We'd fudged it on the album with some overdubbing and a lot of takes, but now we have to do it live, and that new bass player is a shit for brains who doesn't know what the fuck he's doing.

Oh, the fans love him--girls think he's hot and dangerous, boys think he's brought some sort of rougher edge to our sound (untrue--Doug the fuckhead makes no contribution to the band, it's all Chelle, Kat, and me). Truth is, he's been brought in by the label because he would "appeal to the demographic we're seeking." Fucking suits. Makes me miss John, who's now playing for a second-rate country band in Texas, unbelievable. But John Oxenburger would never pass muster with the suits.

The limo driver gets the door, and I head over to rehearsal, trying to focus on that riff, and how to get the dumb shit to play it right twice in a row. Make it through tonight, and tomorrow we'll head back to the coast; no, that's the next day, gotta do the promotional shit tomorrow. But then we won't have to come back to Vegas until the fall.

I'm not going to think about what it'll like to be in Vegas in late October. The date's not set in stone yet, after all, and fuck knows things change often enough in this business. Maybe I'll be lucky and the arena will go out of business, like that club in Winnipeg. Yeah, like I'd have that kind of luck. Maybe I'll call John tonight, catch up, see how he and that funky wife of his are doing. Exorcise the damn demons Vegas always brings out.

So I start trying to figure out, for the bazillionth time, where it all went wrong, and I want to call up Bruce and tell him (again) just where I figure that fucking camera of his should go. Fucking asshole actually took out a restraining order on me after I'd shown up, roaring drunk and ready for bear, once too many times that first month after.

After Joe went down, the band went down, fuck, my whole life went down the tubes. I still don't get what Kat &amp; Chelle saw in me, that they fought so hard to keep me in Jenifur. Turns out they didn't want old Earl back--they went to bat with the suits to help me through the first months. And then the custody battle, I tried so fucking hard to fall off the wagon and they just wouldn't let me.

They're a good couple, and good friends. Friends through all the shit of having a pop band with screaming teenybopper fans, through the growing pains as our music gelled and the suits fought to keep us in the same old pop box we'd long since outgrown. Makes me appreciate Alanis all the more.

And then there's Billie. Fuck, that was tough, getting through all the legal shit, and even tougher, getting to know my daughter, but we worked through it, and I see her all summer and for her school vacations. And I make damned sure we don't have any shows when she's going to be there. That's more important than anything else, and if that means I have to be in Vegas next October (after Thanksgiving, which Billie will spend with me this year), I'll fucking well do it. She loves me, amazing thing, teaches me how to be her dad, how to love her back.  
My daughter has two fathers and a mother who love her, and she'll never have to go through any of the shit I did. Mary was a bitch during the custody battle, but she's okay now, and Evan has actually been great through the whole thing, making sure Billie knows both of us are her dads, even though she calls Evan by his name, and that just makes her more lucky and special than other kids.

So now Billie, whose dad (one of them) is a rock star, takes Suzuki violin in Canada, plays soccer in Hollywood in the summer, gets too many presents, and handles it all with aplomb. I have to hand it to Mary for making sure Billie didn't turn into a spoiled brat the first year I was in the picture, because I bought her every toy, bauble, and piece of clothing I could get my hands on--having the money from Jenifur and someone to spend it on (someone to love who wasn't the asshole that, let's face it, Joe was) was a rush like nothing coke or booze ever gave me.  
Yep, I'm what my therapist calls "an addictive personality," and being aware of it only makes it marginally easier to control. I can't buy all that higher power bullshit the 12-step programs push, but I can dig one thing they say--one day at a time. One more day in Vegas, then one more, then home. Billie's spring break in a couple weeks. Keep your eye on the prize, Billy boy.

****

I sit in my room, nursing a beer, wondering what I've gotten myself into. How the fuck I ended up in the FBI to begin with. Frank, no doubt, would blame my impulsive nature. Maybe he'd be right.

Another week, and I'll be under, working to get the goods on some psycho polygamists in a small town up near the Utah/Arizona border. Day after tomorrow I head to Flagstaff, where they've set up a branch office that is at least marginally closer to Church Canyon than Vegas is.

The way Bartlett, my boss on this gig, described it, they can't set up anything any closer than that. Tough shit that Flagstaff is almost 150 miles away. Over in the Navajo Nation, even in relatively big (relatively being the key word here) towns like Page (population 8000, a metropolis compared to Big Water and Church Canyon, with around 300 each), the risk is too great.

"People up here are suspicious, Agent Bayliss, and they notice everything and know everyone. Half of them think the UN is a huge international conspiracy. We try to set up an office in Page and this will be over before it starts."

The nuts are everywhere up there--I've already heard of at least 5 or 6 towns made up of polygamists, some offshoot Mormons like in Colorado City, some radical libertarians like the folks in Big Water, Utah. Word is the folks in Church Canyon used to be Big Water residents, but they had a tiff with the mayor (the leader of the Big Water group, he'd had 8 or 9 wives before he died of kidney cancer last year, and something like 40 children) and split off to found a new town.

We don't really know what happened after that. The Canyon folks keep to themselves. They'll head into Page or out to Kanab or even St. George to pick up provisions, and the men of the town still come out to the tiny Big Water Post Office once a week for what little mail is waiting for them, but that's all anyone ever sees of them.   
Even the weird Big Water School, with all its children with the same last names, isn't good enough for the Canyoners. They home school their kids. No one knows for sure how many children there are, because Canyon folks don't like Uncle Sam to know anything about them, don't care about saving on an income tax they only pay to keep the IRS away, and try to avoid filling out birth certificates for their home-birthed babies.

For a few years, in fact, no one paid attention to Church Canyon. They'd managed to get a hold of some land before Clinton created the Grand Staircase Escalante National Monument, and folks in the high, empty desert leave you alone if that's what you want. If it hadn't been for some sharp folks at tiny Page Hospital (what kind of hospital only has 25 beds? I can't get my brain around it--the CICU at Maryland Shock Trauma had 30 beds all of its own), we never would have known about the population boom, never had any reason to investigate the goings on in a tiny settlement in the middle of nowhere Kaibab plateau.

There are two hospitals in that stretch of Utah/Arizona borderland, the one in Page and an even smaller one in Kanab. On those rare occasions that something goes wonky at a birth and the husband involved has enough heart to seek some professional care, that's where he'll find it. Most prefer Kanab, which is familiar with multiple wives having multiple babies at home with poorly trained midwives. That's what goes on in Big Water, has been for years. Kanab is safer than Page, which after all tends to Navajos from the reservation and is therefore susceptible to all kinds of government hanky-panky.

One night a couple years ago, though, a bad situation developed over in the Canyon. Not only was the baby in bad shape, but the mother was bleeding uncontrollably and seizing as well. It happened while the rest of the town was at one of their compulsory three hour church services, and the family involved was rather unique--the husband was a distant relation of Jeff Eisen, the leader of the town, and had been granted the practically unprecedented benison of bringing his one and only wife with him when he moved into town, and not yet marrying another, although there were plans in the works.

Most men who come to Church Canyon come unattached, having heard of the town through underground newsletters (these folks sure as hell don't trust the internet), knowing if they bring enough money with them, they'll have their pick of fresh young brides. Young men born there are obligated to wait to marry until they have enough of a "contribution" for the church, and money's hard to obtain, given the enforced insularity of the community and the lack of gainful employment. Married men tend to be the elders of the church, 40 and up, with an average of 5-8 wives.

So Paul Finkus was a rarity, and the fact that he loved his wife, Nancy, and didn't really relish the idea of marrying the 14 year old Sally Eisen in a month, made him even more rare. Finkus' wife was pregnant. Finkus questioned the midwife, a wife of Jeff Eisen's, about her training. She told him she'd attended 30 births, all in Church Canyon, with other midwives before she started attending women on her own. Because she was their Holy Father's wife, she was blessed by God, she said, so it didn't concern her that she'd had no formal training at all and had not read a single book on obstetric care.

When things went horribly wrong, the midwife prayed. Paul Finkus, already thinking this town was crazy, struggled to get his wife and son into the car and drove straight to Page Hospital.

The baby survived after being life-flighted to Phoenix. Paul's wife was DOA. All the CPR in the world won't bring you back if you bleed to death 10 minutes before you get to the hospital. The chief of staff, the hospital's anesthesiologist, spoke with Paul, explaining carefully the warning signs that should have clued any competent midwife that medical intervention was required. Nancy should not have died.

There'd been a local investigation, and the feds got involved--it was unclear whether Nancy Finkus had died in Utah or Arizona, but a state line had definitely been crossed. They hadn't been able to prove anything, but the statements they'd taken from Finkus had gotten the Feds wondering exactly what was going on in Church Canyon--they sure didn't want another Waco, and some of the stuff Finkus told them made them plenty nervous.  
Finkus had only lived in Church Canyon for 3 months, and despite his connection to Eisen, had only been to one meeting of the Elders. They needed more information. They hadn't committed to the undercover operation, though, until Heather Smith, aged 16, turned up dead, washed up in a slot canyon down by the Paria River.   
At first they thought she'd gotten caught in a flash flood, ignored all the warning signs posted by the hiking trails. The ranger hadn't seen anyone head out to the trailhead, but her name was signed on the register the day of the thunderstorm. They did an autopsy before they found anyone to identify the body--she'd never been reported missing, and they only identified her from dental records from her single visit to a dentist in Page when she was 8.

The autopsy found she'd been badly beaten before she was drowned, she'd recently suffered a miscarriage, and she had several healed fractures. I saw the pictures--it wasn't pretty. The flood washed away any other evidence, and as usual the town wasn't talking. The investigation was still open, but they had no leads. It was time for the big guns.

And apparently the big guns wanted me, so I'm going in. It's been a year since I started with the FBI, and this is my first assignment, but for some reason they want me for this one. I'll meet Eisen in Flagstaff first, put down enough of a stake to qualify for marriage. I've spoken to the man on the phone a couple times--payphone, of course, he insisted--and he has a creepy charisma that reminds me of many of the smarter class of murder suspects I've interviewed.

He's checked out my references, mostly fake ones from FBI agents undercover in organizations like the Michigan Militia and Posse Comitatis, but also a few from Big Water, where the folks are cooperating so they won't have the feds on their backs. Even so, it's not a sure thing he'll let me in. They've gotten more cautious since the Finkus incident; the town is starting to look like a prison with the fencing around it, not to mention the guards.

I'm going in, going under. Bisexual FBI agent, former Buddhist, former Murder Police, and I'm going to be posing as a fundie who thinks the X-files weren't paranoid enough, as someone who wants to marry 3 or 4 teen-age girls, get them pregnant, and have them wait on me hand and foot. I don't know how the hell I'm going to pull it off. To tell the truth, I'm scared shitless. I suck down the rest of my beer in one long gulp.

The cell rings, and I answer it the way I'm supposed to--"Rawls." I'm supposed to get used to that name. I picked it to honor Chris, before I knew what the assignment was going to be. I know he wouldn't exactly be honored by who Timothy Rawls is going to be, but I also know he'd support anything that gets rid of people like Eisen.   
Bartlett's on the phone.

"Tim, yeah, listen up. We've had a tip that there may be a runaway from Church Canyon that made it out here for a concert tonight. No idea if the kid really made it here or not, but we do know he left a couple nights ago and hitchhiked at least as far as St. George. Guy who picked him up reported him to the local police as a possible runaway, and said the kid talked about this band the whole way. He said the kid's name was Eli, and he fits the description we have of one of Eisen's kids, Elijah, 15. Also said the kid was beat up and scared, wouldn't give his full name, jumped out of the car when he tried to get him to open up. Anyway, the band's called Jenifur--you heard of them?"

"Yeah, yeah, they're not bad. So what's the plan? I go to the concert and look for this kid?"

"No, you're a fundamentalist Christian, remember? Another agent's going, but we still want you involved. Come on over to the office and we'll give you the lowdown. It's a long shot, but if we're able to find him and make contact, it'd be great. We're getting in touch with the band, too, in case the kid tries to get an autograph or something."

Half an hour later, I'm arguing with him in person, and I think I'm winning.

"I'm not sure about this, Tim."

"Look, I understand. It's not something you think I'd do, going to a rock concert before joining Church Canyon. But it makes sense."

"Explain to me how this makes sense, because I don't see it."

I feel like I'm back in the car with Frank.

"Somehow this kid--you said his name was Eli, right?--heard of this band, got their cds, became enough of a fan that we think he made his way here just to see them in concert. Given what we know about this town, couldn't he have had some friends who listened to those cds with him? Can't you just see them sneaking into someone's basement?"

"They don't have basements."

"Okay, right, right, on the bedrock, no basements, so they snuck off into a side canyon with a boom box or something, all right? But I'm betting he had at least one friend."

"He could just as well have gone off on his own. He ran away alone."

"Yeah, but if he has a friend, just one friend still inside the town, then anything I know about this band might help me once I'm there."

He argues with me for another ten minutes, but six years experience arguing with a master makes me pretty persuasive, and he finally agrees to let me meet with the band and attend the concert.

I get to the arena around 7, an hour before the doors open, and they're still rehearsing. Their sound is surprisingly hard-driving, almost thrashy--not at all what I remember from the fluffy pop songs on the Waterfront's juke box. Those songs had worked well on Ladies' night; these sounded more like 3 am on Saturday. Jenifur apparently got some balls.

"Finally! Okay, dumbass, you think you can manage to play it like that tonight?"

I look up onto the stage and see a lean blond with a low-slung guitar. He's wearing faded jeans and a brown flannel shirt with cut-off sleeves, a grey t-shirt underneath, and there's a tattoo visible on one arm. Doesn't sound like much, maybe, but he's the most striking man I've ever seen, period.

"Listen, Billy, just because you were some hotshit punk in fucking Canada--"

This comes from the bass player, who looks more the stereotypical rock star, complete with wavy dark hair and leather pants.

"Boys, boys--chill out already," says a dark-haired woman, the lead singer, almost as striking as the guitarist. The drummer, her face barely visible from this angle, nods her agreement.

I take the opportunity to move closer to the stage.

"Excuse me--Tim Rawls--I think you've been expecting me?"

"Right--the meeting. Doug, I forgot, but we've got this meeting, just me and Billy and Kat--it's about stuff from before you joined the band," says the singer.

"Sure, sure, leave the new guy while you go have your fucking meeting!"

"Jesus, you are such a fucking idiot," the blond, must be Billy, sneers. "Meetings are something to avoid, Dougie."

The other woman--Kat, she must be--adds, "Doug, just practice that riff some more, okay, so that it might sound halfway decent tonight?"

The bassist turns around without answering, playing miffed.

"Fuck, that guy's as juvenile as Pipe," mutters Billy. "But at least Pipe could play."

I wonder exactly who Pipe is, and what he played. Wonder if he played Billy. Jesus, what's gotten into me? Focus on the job, Bayliss, not on the guitarist.

The group heads offstage, minus Doug, gesturing me to follow them into a large lounge. There's a buffet complete with everything from Evian to Budweiser, cheese doodles to vegetarian pizza, and I realize I never ate dinner.

"Help yourself, Mr. Rawls," the lead singer says, gesturing towards the spread. I grab some water. "I'm Chelle, this is Billy, and over there is Kat. I've left Doug out of this--your agency mentioned it was important to keep things quiet, and he's not exactly the soul of discretion. What exactly's going on?"

"As I believe my agency told you, I'm working for SafeTeens, a non-profit agency working to contact runaways and work with both parents and social service agencies to determine the best course of action."

"You mean you don't just send them back to their parents?" asks Billy. I can tell the question's important to him, so I look into his eyes (bright blue) and answer him as honestly as I can.

"Unfortunately, sometimes runaways have legitimate reasons for leaving home-sexual and physical abuse, neglect, that sort of thing. When we've assessed the situation thoroughly, and we believe it's in the runaway's best interest, we work very hard to reunite families, but only then."

I'm intrigued by Billy's question and wonder what he's thinking. I continue to brief the band on the situation, but I find my eyes drawn, time and time again, to his.

****

The rest of the meeting goes well, punctuated only by the sounds of Doug practicing. Sounds like he's finally getting a little better. Fuck, it's about time. Maybe we'll make it through the concert okay after all. Not that the fans would probably notice.

We're wrapping things up, talking about where Rawls will be, giving him a pass, looking at pictures and a written description of the kid, named Eli. I'm doodling, thinking more about how Rawls looks than concentrating on anything else. I look up, and the guy's staring at me. He's a little embarrassed I noticed, smiles apologetically, and I smile back. I can't help myself--that smile's like water in this fucking desert town, clean and clear and refreshingly honest. No LA in that smile.

What's a fucking social worker doing being that gorgeous, anyway? Okay, I'll give you that his beard's a little scruffy, his grey-shot brown hair a little rumpled, his suit is wrinkled, and he has dark circles under those intense eyes, but that only makes him look more mature. I can dig the bookish glasses, though. I can tell by looking at him he must have had some teen age years like mine, looking years younger than he was. Of course, he had the advantage of height--he's got to be at least 6'3 or 6'4--but I bet it took awhile for folks to take him seriously, with that pretty-boy face.

It's like Rob Lowe--couldn't take him seriously until he got a few wrinkles, you know? St. Elmo's Fire--totally lame; he looks like a fucking idiot. Don't even get me started on The Hotel New Hampshire. The West Wing--totally fucking hot, and you actually believe he's as smart as the character, which is quite a coup for him, considering he was stupid enough to get caught on videotape like that. Don't think Rawls is stupid.  
There's something a little off about him, though, even with that amazing smile. Can't tell what color his eyes are, either--I think they're brown, but I'm not sure. Even through the glasses, they have a lot of depth, and maybe a lot of pain as well. Joe would make up an elaborate story about him, probably say he was a serial killer or something.

Kat and Chelle wander away to their dressing rooms. Rawls has been eyeing the food since he walked in the door, and someone that tall, built like that (built like me), probably needs regular refueling, so I tell him to go ahead. They always send up way too much food anyway, really kind of makes me sick.

He smiles again, says thanks and grabs a slice of veggie pizza and another bottled water. Now I notice teeth--always have. I've spent good money on keeping mine up, including caps for the broken ones, even when I didn't have two nickels to rub together, and this man has good teeth. They flash, white and pearly, when he smiles, and again when he demolishes half the slice in one impressive bite.

I stick around--haven't got anything better to do. Help myself to a piece, tell him to have another. He tells me he liked what he heard, that he's looking forward to the concert, and fuck if I don't feel all warm and happy.   
I always used to be a sucker for a compliment; Joe used to call me a whore for it. A few years in LA have changed that--when everyone is sucking up to you 24-7, you wise up eventually. But this guy exudes sincerity, and I can't resist. Yeah, you always were fucking easy, Billiam. Joe's taunts, heard for over twenty years, haven't disappeared just because he's not around to make them anymore.

A cell phone I hadn't noticed rings at his hip, and he answers it with quick grace. Didn't know someone could be graceful answering a cell phone, but he pulls it off.

"Rawls. What? No, no, I understand. Is the city sending anyone? All right, all right. Yeah. Got it."

As he hangs up, I get another funky vibe that things are a little more complicated than they seem.  
"Everything okay?" I ask casually.

"Things just got a little more complicated, that's all," he answers, echoing my thoughts, shaking his head. "This particular case, we're very concerned about abuse, and we just got word from the police that the boy's father and some of his cronies might show up here and try to take the kid back. We're going to need to be really careful. We need to get this kid to safety."

"So all that talk about the runaway's best interest wasn't just bullshit?" Don't know why I'm challenging him on it--I believed what he said earlier.

"What? No, jesus, of course not," he says, sounding annoyed.

"Good, that's good," I say. We look at each other again. "How does this change the plan? Cops gonna be here?"

"There'll be a few detectives here, keeping an eye out. Unfortunately, Vegas police aren't able to spare many, but they did promise to keep their SWAT team on alert."

"SWAT team? That sounds more serious than an abusive father! What the fuck's really going on here, Rawls? You a cop too?" Maybe that sincerity's an act after all.

"What? No, no, I'm not a cop. Listen, you're right, there is a little more going on here than meets the eye, but it's not something I can really discuss, you know--confidentiality rules, can't discuss the specifics of the individual runaways' cases. I've already told you more than I probably should."

I back off. "Yeah, okay. This kid's going to be all right? No fuck-ups?"

"Yes, he's going to be okay."

"Don't know why, but I believe you."

Rawls smiles again, shy but warm. My breath catches--this man is fucking beautiful. I still think he might be hiding something, but whatever it is, I don't think it has anything to do with Eli the runaway. This guy would not hurt a kid, I know it in my fucking bones.

"Okay, well, enjoy the food, Mr. Rawls--I gotta go hold Dougie's hand a little before the show."

"Thanks, Mr. Tallent."

"Call me Bill. Real name's Bill Boisy."

For some reason that's important, that he knows my real name.

"Thank you, Bill. I'm looking forward to hearing you play."

"Really? 'cause you don't seem like the Jenifur type. Suit, tie, those glasses--I had you pegged as maybe a jazz fan, Mr. Rawls."

He laughs, flashing those teeth again. "There's more to me than me than meets the eye, Billy. And call me Tim, okay?"

I smile back. Cunt. Shut up, Joe.

"You got it, Tim. See you later."

The concert goes well--Doug plays competently, a big fucking step for him, Kat and Chelle rock, and I pass that sin city vibe into a saner place. Sometimes being up there onstage is better than any therapist could ever be.  
I head back to the dressing room. I tore a couple calluses--time for the bandaids. Usually a sign I played well--blood on the strings and I don't even notice until the concert's over.

There's a knock at the door, so I look up and ask who it is. A boy sticks his head in. Takes me a minute to realize why he looks so familiar--he matches Eli's description, right down to the black eye and grubby red jacket.

Another kid like me, like Tim probably--Tim said he was 15, but he looks about 10, Billie's age.

"Umm, Mr. Tallent? I'm really sorry to bother you, but I'm a really big fan, and--"

"It's okay, kid. Come on in--and shut the door, okay?"

Tim'll be making the rounds in a few minutes. If he was right about the kid's father, he's safer in here than out in the open.

"Really? That would be great!"

I hold out my hand. "Bill Boisy. And you are?"

"Elijah--Eli. I thought your name was Tallent."

"That's just a stage name--Boisy's what I was born with."

I hardly ever give my real name, especially not to fans, but tonight seems to be an exception. Maybe the fact I first changed my name when I ran away.

"So what's your story, kid? How'd you manage to get back here?"

"I told the security guy I was a friend of Kat's sister. I read in Rolling Stone she has a sister who's my age, who lives in Phoenix."

"Which security guy?"

"You're not gonna have him fired, are you?"

"No, just want to make sure he doesn't make the same mistake again. You seem okay, Eli, but you'd be surprised what kind of idiots there are out there."

He just looks at me.

"No, I wouldn't," he says quietly. I don't know what's been done to this kid, but if anyone ever does it to Billie, I'll fucking kill them.

Just then there's another knock, and Tim comes in. He smiles when he sees Eli, shuts the door, and stands in front of it with ease and confidence. I realize he's blocking it, so the kid can't escape.

"Eli, this is a friend of mine, Tim Rawls," I say, surprised to find I'm telling the truth. But Eli, he freaks out.

"Oh shit! I knew that was too easy! Listen, I don't know how you found me, but I'm not going with you."  
Tim crouches down, not so tall and imposing.

"Hey, Eli, it's okay. I'm not here to take you home. I'm from a group called SafeTeens, and all I want to do is make sure you're safe."

"Yeah, right, like I'm supposed to believe that. Where is he? I know he's got to be here somewhere."

"Who, Eli?" Tim asks gently.

"My holy fucking father, of course! I told you, I'm not going back."

Eli steps away from Tim and backs into me.

"Look, Billy, I don't know what he told you, but he's either with some group that'll take me back, or a private eye, or a cop or something, or even a friend of my father's, and if he's any of those he's just going to take me back to Utah, and I can't do that!" Eli's panicking, reaching to find something in his coat pocket.

"Eli, it's--" I stop, my hands halfway to his shoulders. He found what he was looking for. He's pulling a gun out of his jacket, and just like that I start to shake.

I look up at Tim, and he doesn't look scared. He looks concerned, focused, conflicted about what to do, incredibly intense. Definitely not scared. Surprisingly sexy. My cock twitches. What the fuck? This kid's ready to shoot somebody, and all I'm thinking about is jumping someone's bones? I'm fucking useless.

Eli's unsure about where to aim the gun, wavering between pointing at Tim and at his own temple. Jesus. Tim's very aware of the gun, but he's calm as he speaks to Eli.

"Hey, hey there, Eli, hold on a minute. I know you're scared. I'm not going to take you back to the Canyon, I promise. You are right about one thing, though--your father is here, along with some of his friends, and they are looking for you."

Eli begins to shake, then decides which way the gun's going--he holds it against his head. I start shaking again. Couldn't stop Joe, can't see how to stop Eli, how can this be happening again?

"I am not going back. I'm not going anywhere. I don't believe you. No matter what, I'm not going back." Eli stands, pale and resolute, and takes the safety off the gun.

"Okay, okay, hold on, Eli," I say. Will he listen to me? "Whatever's waiting for you at home, whatever you're scared of, we'll get you out of it. Please don't do this!"

"Eli. All right. I understand why you're scared. I know about what it's like in the Canyon. I really am here to help you." Tim's voice is calm, soothing, but it doesn't seem to be having much effect.

"No one knows what it's like in the Canyon. If you know, that just means you must be a friend of my father's!"

"Eli. I'm going to tell you something, show you something, that will prove to you I'm not the bad guy, okay? I wasn't supposed to tell you this until later, because Billy wasn't supposed to know about it, but I can see that we've got a problem here and this is the only way to solve it. Now I'm going to get something out of my belt. I need to show it to you. Please just hold on a sec, all right?"

I have no fucking clue what the fuck Tim is talking about.

He holds up his hands, then reaches one down to the waistband of his pants and draws something out of a hidden pocket there.

"Billy, Eli, this is a big deal. You're putting your life on the line there, Eli, and this is me putting my life on the line, all right?"

He takes a big breath, then hands the card over. Eli grabs it quickly with his free hand, too quickly for me to see anything other than it's some sort of ID.

"My name isn't Tim Rawls, Eli, and I'm not from SafeTeens. I'm Special Agent Tim Bayliss from the FBI, and I'm about to go undercover in Church Canyon as part of a federal investigation. We need to know what's going on there. We know what happened to Heather. She was your sister, right?"

"Cousin," Eli mumbles, still staring at the ID. His other hand, the one holding the gun, lowers slightly.

"She's dead, isn't she? Never saw her after that night. She was so scared, but she was going to get out. We were supposed to go together."

"Yeah, Eli, she's dead. I'm sorry--I thought you knew."

"S'okay. I figured. You're really from the FBI? I knew you were a cop."

Eli flicks the safety and hands me the gun. I practically drop it giving it to Tim, I want it out of my hand that fast. Yeah, big fucking rock star, Billy-boy, scared of a little gunsie-wunsie.

Tim, though, he just takes the gun and empties the clip, puts the gun in one pocket and the clip in the other, and never takes his eyes off Eli. It hits me--the gun was fucking loaded, the safety was off, he really was going to do it--and I sit down before I fall and make even more of an ass of myself.

"Used to be a cop in Baltimore, but I joined the feds a couple years ago. And I am going to get you out of here safely, without your father seeing you. And next week I'm going to the Canyon, as Timothy Rawls, to find out exactly what your father has going there. All right?

"Look, Billy, I've got to get us out of here. You and the band should be okay--we've got agents posing as security guards and roadies all over the place--but Eli really is in danger, and I can't let anyone from Church Canyon see my face."

"Jesus, no, of course, get out of here, get safe."

I watch Tim stand up, put his arm protectively around Eli, start to head for the door. I realize I don't want them to leave. I want to find out more about this Baltimore cop turned FBI agent. This man who protects kids, even at the risk of his own safety. And I want him to know he can trust me. "Your secret's safe with me," I say, like a stupid fuck.

Tim turns on that warm smile again, says, "I don't know why, but I believe you."

I'm grinning back. Then he gets serious and says, "I, uh, I really shouldn't have told you. The brass is going to want to talk to you. Can you come down tomorrow morning? They'll give you a call and let you know where and when."

"Sure, no problem." I'll see Tim again. That's worth a little lost sleep, even if I have to talk to FBI agents.

"Great," Tim says, holding out his hand. He's got a good handshake, firm, long fingers, warm palm.

I bend down and give Eli a hug, something I never would have thought to do before Billie.

"Listen, kid, I ran away when I was about your age, and while I don't know shit about your family life, mine was fucked up enough that I at least have some idea how you feel. You've got a better chance here than I ever did, so don't fuck it up. Let these folks help you. And you, Agent Bayliss--take care of him or I'll find you and beat you, okay?"

"Okay, Billy," Bayliss smiles. There's something in his smile--recognition? I get the feeling his family life wasn't a bed of roses either.

"Okay, Billy," Eli echoes. As they walk out the door, I hear him add, "Did you know his real name is Bill Boisy?"

****

By the time I get Eli settled with Zoe, then get thoroughly chewed out by several superiors, it's after 3 am. Seems a waste to go back to the hotel for only a couple hours, so I find an empty conference room, put my feet up, and close my eyes.

I open them again two minutes later, my mind a jumble of images--Luke Ryland, Eli, Adena Watson, old favorites like my uncle, like Frank, mixed with new faces. Eli--listening to him tonight, telling his story in a flat voice, amazing the kid got out. All those abused kids out there.

Eli ran away. Bill said he'd run away too, hinted at being abused himself.

Me, I stayed. I never really considered running--didn't see any way out except telling my dad, and look what that got me. I just tried to get away whenever Uncle George was coming over. One year a friend invited me over for Thanksgiving at his house. That was the best Thanksgiving ever. But Eli, he escaped, and so did Bill.

I can't get the man out of my head. Saw him light a cigarette tonight, and suddenly I needed one for the first time in years, just so I could smoke it with him, maybe get him to light it for me like he had for Chelle. I haven't been this attracted to a man since--well, since ever, really. Chris, he's gorgeous, but he couldn't hold a candle to Billy.  
I've come a long way in the last ten years, and I like to think I'm pretty comfortable with my bisexuality. My affair with Chris, that was kind of a watershed, but I haven't really been seriously attracted to anyone, male or female, since Roger Fisk called me a faggot in the station that day.

I saw him once, when I went to Chris' restaurant to say goodbye. Chris had called when Gee was shot, invited me over for a meal on the house, and I took him up on it before I left for Quantico. Imagine my surprise when I see Fisk come in with a hot young Latino. He took one look at me, turned around, and left.

And let's face it--I don't exactly have the best track record with relationships. Emma Zoole, Fisk, Julianna, even Chris--he was great, I just wasn't ready. He tried to take things slow, I pushed, then I left, and I hurt him pretty badly. Deciding I've got the hots for a rock star is just about par for the course.

Yeah, an attraction for Billy Tallent makes about as much sense as having sex in a coffin with Emma Zoole--sounds hot, probably would be, but totally nuts. The guy's probably straight, and even if he isn't, he could have any man or woman he wanted. I may see him again this morning, if Bartlett and the others allow it (sometimes I really miss Gee), but it will be brief and professional and over. Maybe I'll be able to use my vast knowledge of Jenifur to get closer to some kid in Church Canyon (hey, did you know their guitarist's real name is Boisy?), and I'll pick up their cds at the mall after I finish the assignment, but that's as far as it will ever go.

So why do I feel such a connection with him?

I close my eyes again. Then I remember--there's a computer in the corner. One that's on the FBI database, and wired for the internet as well. Before I can regret it, I'm up and over and typing in Boisy, William. Then I add Tallent, Billy, under the alias section, hit enter, and start reading.

Three hours later, I wake with a start as Zoe, Bartlett's assistant, comes in with a pot of coffee and some pastries. "Oh, I'm sorry, Agent Bayliss, I didn't realize--"

"It's okay, Zoe, don't worry about it. I needed to wake up anyway--you did me a favor."

I stand up, stretch, wince a little. Sleeping at the desk wasn't exactly good for my back. "Is this where the meeting with Boisy's happening?"

"Yes, I believe so. You'll have to ask Agent Bartlett to be sure."

"I'll do that, thanks, Zoe."

"You're welcome, sir," she says, smiling. "Don't let them yell at you anymore, okay? I heard what happened--you did the right thing to save that kid."

"Zoe, that is part of a classified federal investigation!"

"Agent Bayliss, as you well know, I am Agent Bartlett's assistant. I know about the investigation, and I have clearance."

"I know, Zoe--that was me teasing you."

"Oh." She blushes. "Okay. You seem to be in a pretty good mood this morning, considering."

"Yeah, I think I am, actually."

It's surprisingly true. Sometime between starting to research Bill Boisy and waking up, my mood shifted. I have no idea why, but I'm going with it.

Keeping the positive attitude gets more difficult as the morning wears on. I have another argument with Bartlett, this time about letting me stick around for the meeting with Billy. He wants me to go to Flagstaff today. I bite back a few choice comparisons between him and Gee. At least he's not as bad as Gaffney.

Once again my experience with Frank the Jesuit helps me win the argument--I can leave for Flagstaff tomorrow, and he'll call me in to the meeting when they're ready for me to join them.

So I sit in his office, thinking over what I found out this morning before I fell asleep. Doug's comment about Billy being a punk makes sense now--he used to be in a band called Hard Core Logo, up in Canada. The lead singer, guy named Joe Dick, shot himself--on camera, apparently after a fight during a reunion tour. That explains the panic in Bill's eyes when Eli threatened to shoot himself.

Billy and Joe Dick had been the main force behind the band--when Billy left for LA, five years before the reunion tour, Hard Core Logo died.

Billy and Joe had been together for years--Bill apparently ran away from home to join Joe. Both of them had sheets in Canada--juvie stuff, mostly, but a couple drunk and disorderlies over the years. And there was a restraining order out on him--apparently he'd threatened the film-maker who'd gotten the suicide on tape. Sounds like McDonald had it coming. But there have been no arrests since he moved to the US permanently in '96.

It sounds like the two of them lived the stereotypical life of sex and drugs and rock 'n' roll, at least as far as I could tell from the few websites devoted to the band. Some of them are full of speculation about "the true nature of the partnership between Joe and Billy." Even the Jenifur sites, much fluffier in general, often take a partisan view of Billy's custody battle.

He has a daughter, ten years old, up in Canada. Younger than Eli, than Adena. Apparently he's quite protective of her, refuses to tour when she might be visiting, that sort of thing.

The official Jenifur website is short on information and long on fluff, but some of the fan sites are more informative. One fan insists Billy's "the best thrash guitarist in North America." A lot of fans gush about how hot he is, so apparently I'm not the only one who's noticed. A few bemoan the loss of a previous guitarist named Earl, but more have reviews ("Jenifur Grows Up" in the _Rolling Stone_; "New Edge for Jenifur" in _Spin_) praising a maturing sound attributed to Billy's influence.

The FBI probably has access to the stuff McDonald filmed, the stuff that's never been released. I'd like to see footage of the band and people who've been so influential in Billy's life. Like Joseph Mulgrew, Joe Dick, who killed himself because Billy was leaving the band.

The intercom buzzes. "They're ready for you, Agent Bayliss."

I stand up and walk through the hallway, the morning sun shining. My palms are moist, and I wonder what Billy will look like this morning--will he be tired, rumpled, from getting up so early? I get a sudden flash of that tattoo on his arm, body tangled in the sheets, gold in the morning light. I will my inconvenient erection to subside, carrying Eli's file in front of me, as I walk into the conference room. Seeing Bartlett scowling by the door does the trick.

But then I see Billy, smiling an encouraging smile, blue eyes warm and supportive, and my mood lifts again, not to mention other things. I don't understand why he affects me like this, but I'm willing to go along with it.  
"I was just explaining to Mr. Boisy exactly how you fucked up our operation last night, Agent Bayliss."   
It's going to be a long time before I hear the last of this.

"And I told him you weren't the one who fucked up, Tim--it was whatever assholes didn't know the kid's fucking father was going to show up. You did the only thing you could to save that kid--he knew the SafeTeens stuff was bullshit, and he was ten seconds from blowing his brains out. I sure as hell couldn't think of anything to help him, but you did."

"Thanks, Mr. Boisy, I appreciate it, but maybe I could have found another way that didn't involve blowing my cover before I even got started."

Billy shrugs. "Nothing I can think of. And I also told your boss here that you can put me through whatever fucking tests or have me sign whatever papers you want--I'm not going to let anyone know. No one else in the band knows about the gun--I told them he went with you to SafeTeens, no problems."

"We appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Boisy, and we have an agent who will talk to you about all the ramifications of this incident."

"Fine, fine, but I want to know what else I can do to help," Billy says in a determined voice, like he's expecting resistance to this idea.

"There's absolutely nothing more you can do, Mr. Boisy, beyond never talking about this with anyone."

"I'm not so sure about that, Agent Bartlett. What if there are some other kids, friends of Eli, who run away? Isn't it possible one of them will try the same thing, try to see Jenifur? You need someone to be on the lookout for these kids. Bayliss can make contact with kids before they leave--maybe we can set up some way for them to make it out, a sort of underground railroad, with a Jenifur concert being one of the stops, or something."

I stare at him. I know Bartlett will never go for it, but I think it's a brilliant idea. And that has nothing to do with the hard-on I'm hiding. Sure it doesn't, Tim.

Just then the door opens, and Zoe comes in. She goes to Bartlett and speaks softly in his ear. I can't hear what she says, but Bartlett's head comes up quickly, wary. He nods at Zoe.

"We have a problem. Bayliss, Mr. Boisy, both of you have to get out of this room and out of sight. Eisen's here, demanding help getting his son back from the kidnappers he says stole the boy. Waterman's trying to reason with him, but he's got a bunch of his buddies here and they're becoming a containment problem."

"Great, this is great," I mutter. "Okay, where to, boss?"

I hear raised voices coming down the hall and recognize Eisen's. Shit--no time to get out of the room. Bartlett gestures to the bathroom in the back, behind the computer station, and Billy follows me in, locking the door behind him. It's dark, but there's a little light coming in through the cracks, and as my eyes adjust, I can see Billy next to me.

Well, I wanted to spend more time with him.

****

So we crowd into this room, a bathroom, and I can't believe it. I'm stuck in a tiny bathroom with Tim Bayliss, Mr. Sexy Secret Agent Man, hiding from some psycho cult leader or something. Weird shit for a thousand, please, Alex.

I start to say something, but Tim gestures for silence. He's leaning up against the door, listening to whatever's going on out there. Probably not a bad idea.

Last night I watched Tim salvage what I was sure was going to be another fucking mess, Joe all over again, this time in real time, and I was blown away.

I have no idea what to make of Special Agent Bayliss, formerly a cop, with eyes that are brown, I know that now, brown eyes filled with depth, compassion, and pain. I want to know what makes this man tick. I want to know what makes this man hot.

I haven't felt this way about anybody I've met since--well, since I first laid eyes on one Joseph Mulgrew. I didn't think you could make that kind of instant connection with someone once you'd gotten past adolescence. Guess I was wrong.

He walked into the room this morning, obviously having slept in last night's clothes, hair and beard delightfully scruffy, circles under those intense eyes even darker, and he looked for me.

His boss was yelling at him, but he looked for me, and smiled as soon as he saw me. Obviously exhausted, fucked over by his boss, involved in some dangerous investigation, knowing I had his life by the balls, Tim Bayliss came in, looked for me, and smiled, genuinely happy to see me.

And I smiled right back, suddenly knowing I'll do anything I can to help him. Putz.

There are definitely some raised voices out there, arguing about FBI jurisdiction and kidnapping. I move closer to the door, closer to Tim, and I trip over a fucking roll of toilet paper. I reach out a hand for balance, end up grabbing Tim's shoulder. He reaches up to steady me, bringing me closer. My dick is in favor of that. Then he bends to my ear.

"Sorry I had to put you in this position," he whispers.

I'm smiling again at the images this brings up, and I shift a little to accommodate the pressure in my groin.

"I think your idea was a good one," he tells me, and I shiver a little at the warmth of his breath in my ear.  
"Bartlett won't go for it, but it's a good idea." He stops to listen, then continues.

"I don't know if we can pull it off, but I'm willing to try if you are."

Startled by this unexpected development, I turn to face him. Turn so quickly that Tim doesn't have time to move away, and his lips brush my cheek. Down, boy, he didn't know you were moving, it's dark in here.

I take a breath, focus, then nod. He takes out a business card and writes a phone number on it. I dig for something, anything, to write on and finally come up with an almost-empty pack of cigarettes. I write my cell number on it, start to hand it to him, then take it back and add MGM 1245, my room number, throw in my address in LA just for kicks.

Like he's going to come to my room tonight, right. Our hands brush with each exchange--his card, his pen, his pen and the carton back to him. Tim's hand is warm, and his fingers seem to linger just a shade longer than necessary.

The voices outside get louder, then end, a door slamming. I start to reach for the door, but Tim grabs my hand and holds it, motioning again for silence. We wait a few more minutes. Tim's listening intently. He hasn't released my hand--he's rubbing his thumb over my knuckles, absently, like he isn't even aware he's doing it.

Finally there's a knock, and Bartlett tells us it's okay. Tim gives my hand a quick squeeze, then lets go and opens the door, leaving me glad I'm wear my clothes big.

"That was too damned close, Bayliss. You're heading to Flagstaff tomorrow, you hear me? From now on you're Rawls, 24-7, no more fuck ups."

"Yes, sir."

"And you--Boisy--just consider this one more thing that never happened, you got me?"

That's it--I've had it with this prick.

"I got you, asshole. I fucking told you already, I'm not doing anything to fuck this up. I saw that kid last night--hell, I was that kid, or near enough, and I want the son of a bitch who did that to him gone, okay? You got that, Mr. FBI Man?"

Bartlett's staring at me like I've grown horns or something, and Tim's staring too. Don't know what I said, but it meant something to him.

"Okay, Mr. Boisy, we get that. But you better not slip up some night at a post-concert celebration, you hear me?"  
"I hear you just fine, you fucking prick, and it's not going to happen."

I turn away from Bartlett and back towards Tim, reaching my hand out. Yeah, I'm a whore. Want one more touch before I leave.

"It's been an honor to meet you, Agent Bayliss. Good luck putting that bastard away." I get another nice, warm, firm handshake.

"Thank you, Mr. Boisy."

And then I head out of the room and to my taxi, my hand tingling and my dick throbbing. Yes, it's a good thing I wore my baggies today instead of my jeans. I don't think anyone noticed--but I half hope Tim did.

Am I imagining things, or was there actually a vibe there? FBI agent, former cop, sure, and he likes guys. Right. But I can't help but think that brush of his lips wasn't totally an accident, and he had to have been aware he was holding my hand, stroking my knuckles.

Jesus. It had been a tense situation, and Tim had been really focused on the conversation outside (except when he was whispering in your cute little ear, you cunt). Shut up, Joe.

Tim does want my help, though, gave me his number, I'm not imagining that.

I get into the taxi, tell him to take me to the MGM Grand, and sit back. It occurs to me just how much Tim must trust me. I literally hold this guy's life in my hands. No one's ever trusted me this much, except maybe Billie--Joe sure as hell didn't, and Joe was closer to me than anyone else ever got.

The cab's starting to pull away when I see Tim walking out of the building. I tell the driver to wait and get out, walk toward him.

"Hi," I say. Brilliant fucking conversationalist, that's me. My mind's gone blank, and I think I may be grinning like a loon. I've officially lost any street cred I had left over from my punk days.

Tim grins back, then assumes a professional demeanor.

"Mr. Boisy, it's important that we not be seen together, especially here."

My face falls as I realize what he's saying.

"Shit, I'm sorry. I'll get going. I just wanted to know how--if the--" I stop. I want to ask about Eli, find out how the kid is doing, but I don't know how to do it without giving anything away.

"Everyone at the agency is well, Mr. Boisy, thanks for asking."

"Great. I'll be going back to the hotel now." It's that connection again--he figured out what I was trying to ask, and answered it.

He nods, then turns away. And I head back to the hotel for an afternoon of promotional bullshit, during which I'm completely distracted by thoughts of Tim.

****

This is fucking nuts. There is no way I'm going to sneak out of my hotel room, stroll down the strip to the MGM Grand, and head up to the 12th floor. I'm Timothy Rawls now, can't be Tim Bayliss, and Rawls wouldn't--well, I suppose Rawls wouldn't be in heathen Las Vegas to begin with, really, but that's not the point. If Rawls were in Las Vegas, by some unutterably odd circumstance, staying in this fucking pyramid (have to remember to stop the fucking swearing), he sure as shit wouldn't sneak out to go see a rock star.

Tim Bayliss wouldn't sneak out to go see a rock star he met yesterday. Well, okay, maybe he would. But something about this feels different from any previous attraction, and the fact that I'm going undercover tomorrow certainly adds some urgency to the situation.

I don't know where Eisen and his gang are. They could still be in town. I can't risk them seeing me, can't risk seeing Billy.

I flash back to something he said today. "I was that kid." Basically the same thing I said to Frank, when I told him just why cases with kids affect me so strongly.

Fuck procedure. I grab my keycard and raincoat, put on my Orioles cap, and leave.

Twenty minutes later, standing in front of room 1245, I'm not as sure. I take a deep breath and knock anyway, ignoring the Do Not Disturb notice sticking out of the key slot. If I read him right, I'll be welcome. He wouldn't have written down his hotel room otherwise.

The door opens. Billy's dressed in sweats, and he quickly gestures me inside, closing and locking the door behind him. He looks concerned.

"Tim, hey, what's up? Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, I mean, I guess. Listen, is this all right? I don't want to disturb you or anything."

"Oh, the sign? Wasn't meant for you. But, shit, not that I'm not glad to see you, Tim, but is this a good idea?"

"Probably not, Billy, probably not." I sigh. "The thing is, tomorrow--well, tomorrow I become a different person. I've put on a show for people before, you have to when you're murder police, gotta get into the perp's head, get that confession. But then you walk out of the Box, and it's done. There's a difference between spouting some racist shit to nail a white supremacist and living the lie completely, day in and day out. And tonight's my last night as Tim Bayliss, and there's no one here who knows who that is."

He nods, nods like he understands, so I keep going.

"Look, I may be way off base here, and I know it sounds crazy, but I can't help but think you might know who that is. Which is amazing, because I'm not even sure I know anymore. So I came here, hoping maybe we could figure it out, before I have to be Timothy Rawls."

He watches me intently throughout this speech, not what I planned to say, I was going to say something about helping kids in Church Canyon. My breath catches as Billy reaches out, reaches up and puts a hand on my shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. I realize for the first time he's shorter than I am.

"Okay, Tim. Okay. Have a seat, talk to me."

We sit at a round table in front of the window. There's a sliding glass door out to a sizeable balcony, and Billy's room is really more of a suite. We're in a living area--there's a sofa on the right, big screen tv on the left, and there are three guitars scattered around the room. There's a small kitchenette behind me, and the open door in front of me leads to a large, comfortable bedroom. Another guitar, an acoustic, is on the bed, along with some papers. I look down at the guitar case by the table and see a picture of a young girl--must be his daughter--taped to the inside.

It's always easier to ask questions, so that's what I do.

"You're two people, too, aren't you? Bill Boisy, Billy Tallent--how is that? How do you do that? How do you remember who you are?"

"I don't half the time. It's better now--easier to be Bill Boisy, to keep Billy Tallent an act. Because Billy Tallent, he's an asshole. Mr. Hollywood Rock Star, sell-out, liar, fucking shithead, a drunk. He's the guy from Hard Core Logo, the guy who fucked over his best friend. I don't want to be Billy Tallent anymore. Boisy's the name on the songs, at least the ones I've written the last few years. Boisy's the one I want to be."

The venom in his voice is a surprise.

"I read about your friend--Joe, right? That must have been tough."

"Tough, yeah." Billy's voice is softer now. After a minute, he turns his expressive face back to me.

"What was so tough about being Tim Bayliss, Homicide cop from Baltimore, that you wanted to be someone else?"

I pause, my throat tight. I can't talk about Ryland. Someday, maybe I'll be able to tell someone besides Frank, who couldn't give me absolution. Frank, who watched me write Ryland's name in blue under Meldrick's cases, watched me leave the room, with him still holding my badge in his hand.

I can't talk about Ryland. But after all, Ryland was just the one event in a long string I've been trying very hard to forget. I can talk about some of the other events; I think I need to. And for some reason it's easy to talk to Bill, easier than it ever was to talk to Frank, even after six years as partners.

"I was thirty years old when I joined Homicide. I came fresh from the Mayor's Security Detail, and I can't tell you how excited I was. Back then, before they started shifting detectives from squad to squad with no rhyme or reason, Homicide was the elite. Murder police, speakers for the dead, using their brains and not their guns.

"I was the rookie, see, the new guy. I took a lot of ribbing from the first day. And then, my first case, my very first case--it was a little girl, only 11 years old, raped and murdered, and I never closed it. My partner didn't want a partner, I was in the middle of a fucking redball, and I couldn't lay it down. I knew who did the deed, all right, but once I finally got him in the Box, I fucked up. I couldn't get a confession, and we had to let him go.

"For years I kept Adena Watson's--that was her name, Adena, in her red raincoat and school uniform, dead in the rain--I kept her picture on my desk, or in my desk. I couldn't let it go."

Billy's blue eyes are filled with compassion.

"I got better at my job. Frank, my partner, he was amazing in the Box, and he taught me how to be a murder police. When we were in the car, together in the squad room, we fought constantly, challenged each other on every issue you'd care to name. See, Frank, he was raised by Jesuits, and to him, everything is black and white. There's right and there's wrong, and no in between. Me, I think too much about the why for that. When we were in the Box, it was magic; we could read each other's minds after a while. We played off each other, played on the perps like they were musical instruments. But Frank, he was the leader, he was my teacher, my father-confessor, the one who drove that shitty Cavalier. I was the student, the supplicant, second fiddle. That was my role, and I accepted it."

I keep talking, tell him about working with Frank, the cases, the stroke. I tell him about Crosetti's suicide, Frank standing at attention on the steps as we went by. I tell him about some of the other people who challenged me, challenged what I thought of myself. Zeke Lafeld's father, so relieved, able to cry for his dead son only after I told him we'd misspoken, his son was not gay. Meeting Chris Rawls, figuring out what I'd been hiding from myself for 35 years, getting stood up by Roger Fisk, Ryland using my website to stage a murder, Gee's death.   
And I finally tell him about when I got shot. When I got shot, Frank quit the force, and I became a Buddhist, only to throw that away by shooting someone in self-defense.

And Billy listens, those blue eyes intent on my face. Doesn't ask any questions, just listens, just accepts everything I'm telling him. I tell him more than I ever expected to, and he just fucking listens. It's such a shock after all those years with Frank, who questioned everything I ever told him, challenged every statement. And I think it's just what I need.

****

Tim talks, and I listen. It seems to be what he needs, and it's easy to do. I'm fascinated by his years as a cop, by the cases he's worked on, his relationship with his partner. He tells me so much--me, someone he's only known for 24 hours, someone he has to know comes from such a different place you'd think there's no way we could speak the same language.

I think there's something more to the story, something he doesn't feel comfortable telling me, not yet. But he tells me enough for me to know that there is a hell of a lot in common between Detective Frank Pembleton and Joe Dick, and who the fuck would've ever thought that? Tim and I, we've gone through some of the same kinds of hell.

His voice takes on a different tone.

"You know, Frank, he never was a good shot. Me, the whole reason I was drafted into the Security Detail was my shooting, but Frank, even before the stroke, he had a hard time passing that firing test. He wouldn't admit it, of course. He wouldn't admit it when he froze in the squad room that day Junior Bunk took out three uniforms, nearly killed some of the detectives as well. But I saw it--he froze, he couldn't take the shot, and that gave Junior Bunk the time he needed. And he froze again that night, I could see it happen. He had one eye closed, trying to aim, but he couldn't take the shot, and he was about to go down.

"So I took the bullet. I have to admit I thought the vest would protect me, but even if I'd known, I still would have stepped in front. I was closer to Frank than I've ever been to another person, still love him, couldn't bear the thought of the world without his righteous defense of good, the truth, the innocent dead. He held me in his arms, and he was screaming for help, and Munch was crying, and it hurt worse than I thought anything could, and I knew I was going to die. I was ready to die, knowing I'd saved Frank.

"But I didn't die. They told me, later, that Frank was there in the hospital, that he rode in the ambulance with me and held my hand. That he was there, along with everyone else. I don't remember that. I don't remember anything for days, really. And when I started to be awake more than I was asleep, when I really started to know what was going on, Frank, he wasn't there anymore.

"I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised. He never went to see anyone when they were shot--Felton, Kay, Big Man, anyone. Shit, he didn't even see Gee--said we had to catch the shooter, that was more important. Never mind that I'd been at that hospital every fucking day when he had his stroke, I'd been there for him when Mary had pregnancy complications, I'd swallowed my pride and asked him to be partners again, because Mary asked me to--none of that made any difference to the almighty Frank fucking Pembleton."

Tim takes a breath, and I nod to him, try to let him know I'm still here with him.

"In the time between when I was shot and when Gee was shot, almost two years, I spoke to Frank exactly twice. Both times were when I called him, and neither conversation lasted longer than two minutes. He was fine, the kids were fine, Mary was fine, what was I calling about. Nothing, just to talk, to see how he was. Well, he was fine. That was it, that was the extent of our conversation. We'd been partners for six years, he'd spent more time with me than with his wife or kids, and he just didn't care to talk."

"That's fucking bullshit, Tim."

"What? What do you mean?"

"I think he was scared of you."

"Oh, no, no, Frank Pembleton does not get scared, Bill."

"He was scared to talk to you, because he knew it was his fault you got shot, his fault those other cops got shot, and his high moral standards wouldn't let him just fucking deal with it. He'd been with you for six years, and you yourself said, you were the one who always wanted the why, he just wanted to catch the bad guy and go on to the next case. You talk about how he taught you, how you became a better detective, but he didn't want to learn from you, did he? You opened up a chink in his armor, and he panicked. He was fucking scared of you, Tim, because he knew he didn't deserve you."

I'm well and truly pissed. If I ever meet this Frank fucking Pembleton, I'll put the fear of God into him.

"Billy, no, see, Frank, he's not like that. He's just, he's got different standards, he doesn't let things affect him, he's always in control."

"And that's supposed to make me feel better about what he did to you? That's fucked, Tim. I know what I'm talking about here. Joe--he might have had different standards, but he had a lot in common with your Frank. He was only comfortable when he was in control, when I was his, what did you call it, supplicant. It was all about him, how he would never sell out, and I went along with it for years. Played right along with his mind games, knowing he always won--always had, always would. Fell right back into it when I thought the Jenifur gig was gone. I had to be Billy Fucking Tallent, second to the almighty Joe Dick, and when other things opened up for me, things he didn't have the balls for, he couldn't take it and he fucking blew his brains out. And I blamed myself for years; part of me still does. But since when is growing up a little some fucking great sin? Because that's all you did, Tim, you grew up, you didn't need him the way you used to, and he couldn't grow with you because he was too scared."

"You really think that, Billy? Because I never thought of it that way."

"You were there for him, and he wasn't there for you. That's not buddies. I may have only known you one day, but I can tell you you deserve more."

I reach for his hands across the table, hold them tightly. He looks up at me, something like wonder in his eyes.

"You know, the last time I saw Frank, I asked him what he would do if one of his kids got into trouble, addicted to drugs or something. He couldn't even see it as a possibility. 'Never gonna happen. Case closed.' Even after all that time as a cop, he still didn't get it--that his Olivia could grow up to be another Adena Watson, that Frank Junior could get involved with someone like Luther Mahoney. As far as Frank was concerned, by the pure strength of his will, nothing bad would ever happen to his kids. And I had to wonder, if something did happen, if Olivia came to him one day and said, Dad, this person you trusted, they hurt me, would he believe her? Would he finally lose that complacency?

"I like to think he'd believe her. But I know, parents, they don't always believe their kids, they can't always protect their kids. Even the ones who try, and god knows not all of them bother to try."

"I know, Tim, I know."

His eyes are bright with unshed tears, and I have this fierce urge to pull him into my arms and hug him, hug him the way I hug Billie when she scrapes her knee or has a fight on the soccer field. This isn't just about Pembleton anymore.

Tim looks up again.

"You know, you said something today that I said to Frank once."

I wait, still holding his hands.

"You said, 'I was that kid.'"

I nod, not taking my eyes from his.

"How--what--"

"My father beat us up. My mother was a drunk. That's all I ever knew, growing up. Meeting Joe, starting the band, that was my escape. Then my Dad came home one night, got pissed off at the noise, smashed up my guitar, started beating on me. Joe attacked him, and then he beat on both of us. Nearly put Joe into the hospital. Next day, we both left."

He looks at me. I look at him. I hold his hands.

"You were that kid, too, you told Frank. What was it for you, Tim? What didn't they believe when you tried to tell them?"

He sits there for a minute, looking down. I open my mouth to tell him it's okay, he doesn't need to tell me, but then he starts talking, like he can't help himself.

"My uncle. Starting when I was five. In the bathroom, shhh, don't tell, Timmy. For years. And my father, when I finally told him, he yelled at me not to lie. And I never told anyone again, until Frank, and he, he just said he was sorry, but I could see the disgust in his eyes. And it was never the same between us after that. I wasn't pure enough for him anymore--I was just another victim."

I sit back, stare at him in shock.

"Fuck, Tim. You're not a victim--you're a survivor. It wasn't your fault! You were just a kid--fuck!"

Where are my cigarettes? I've been cutting back, trying to quit, but I need a fucking cigarette, now.

I stand up and start pacing around, looking for them. They're in my pocket. I light one, inhale twice, stub it out. I'm pissed.

I take a breath, count to ten. I'm still pissed, but at least I've got my voice back under control. The last thing he needs right now is me yelling at him like a fucking psycho.

"Tim. Listen, it took me a long fucking time to figure this out, and I'm going to sound like some idiot sensitive new age putz instead of a fucking 40 year old punk from Canada, but sexual assault is sexual assault. It does not make you less pure, and it does not make you a victim. I bought into that once, but no more, and I'm not going to sit by and listen to you spout this bullshit about not being pure enough for Frank!"

I step toward his chair and kneel down. I grab him by the shoulders, make him look in my eyes again. "It wasn't your fault, Tim."

I reach up and stroke his cheek. His beard is so soft.

"It wasn't your fault; you were just a kid."

The tears start to fall then, but he's not making a sound, just sitting there with tears running down his face, and I want to kick the fucking shit out of his father, Frank, all the friends and lovers and relatives that never told him it wasn't his fault, never comforted him. I stand up again, holding out my hand.

"C'mon over here a minute, Tim."

He takes my hand and walks over to the couch with me like a zombie, and I do what I've wanted to do from the moment I met this strange and wonderful man, self-described bisexual zen detective and FBI agent. I put my arms around him and hold on, rocking him back and forth, murmuring comfort. Finally, finally, he starts to sob.

"That's it, Tim, it's okay, you're okay."

I hold on, keep rocking him, for long minutes, until he quiets, still curled in my arms. He lifts his head slowly, cautiously, afraid to meet my eyes, oh Tim, it's all right.

"Sorry, Billy, I don't know why I just fell apart like that. I guess it just all caught up with me or something. I can't believe I even told you, and then to fall apart like that--"

He looks at me then, and he must see what I'm trying to tell him, because the fear's going, and the wonder's coming back.

"It's okay, Tim. Really."

"I think--um--I'm gonna go wash up a little, so I don't get any more snot on your furniture."

"Not my furniture, Tim, so I really don't give a fuck. Get snot wherever you want--maybe they'll think it's some new rock star way of making a mark on the room--we've got our fucking reputations to uphold, you know." I smile at him, and he grins back weakly, then stands and walks to the bathroom.

He comes out a few minutes later, and he's taken off his shirt and tie, exposing the white t-shirt underneath. His face and beard are damp and freshly scrubbed, his skin pale and creamy. I hadn't realized before just how thin he is. He's long and skinny, like me, in better shape--probably has to pass physical fitness tests for the FBI--but he's too thin. He looks beautiful.

"My shirt was kind of a mess," he says apologetically. His eyes are still red, but he looks at ease, for the first time since I met him last night.

"No big deal. You okay?"

"Yeah, I think I am. Thank you." He sits back down next to me.

"Frank--he wasn't the hugging sort, you know, and I think after I went out with Chris Rawls, he pulled back even further. And, you know, sometimes it helps. So thank you."

"You're welcome. Any time you need a hug, Tim."

I reach out again, put my hand on his shoulder, squeeze gently, and stroke his back. He's okay, he's at ease. He's mentioned more than once that he's bisexual. Fuck. Maybe I'll get to do more than just hug him, and wouldn't that be just, just, well, great. It would be great. My dick definitely thinks it would be great.

"That feels nice," he murmurs.

"Good."

I keep stroking him, moving my hand up and down, neck, forearm, back, reveling in the soft, warm skin. He closes his eyes, leans back into me, turning a little, bringing his long legs up on to the couch, giving me better access to his back and shoulders. Hey, I can take a hint, so I start massaging his shoulders, encouraging him to lean back even more. I bring one leg up on the couch and stretch it out next to his thigh.

I've never done this for a man before. Women on occasion, yeah, groupies like Mary, just to warm them up, but never with a man. Sex with Joe, it was all about power, a violent struggle to get each other off, mind fucks and hand jobs, not this warm, gentle sensuality. Being on stage was the only foreplay we'd ever needed, the only foreplay Joe would even tolerate. Called me a fucking pussy if I kissed him.

The few other times I've been with men have been quick, faceless encounters. Even the women I've been with, the ones I've given backrubs, it wasn't like this.

This is different. This is fucking terrifying, because I don't just want to get off together, have some fun--I want to know this man, sleep next to him (only ever did that with Joe), see what he looks like when he wakes up, find out what he likes for breakfast, and lunch, and dinner.

The longest relationships, if you could call them that, that I've ever had have been with Mary and with Joe. I'd spent a year with Mary as "my" groupie, but we'd been drunk more than we were sober. I really didn't have a fucking clue what made her tick until the custody suit. And you know, I think a lot of the attraction was that she wanted me. Me, as in not Joe. She wouldn't even let him in bed with us, and that pissed him off.

Joe was jealous. Jesus, maybe that's why it went as far as it did. Why I woke up one morning after passing out in the room, wondering why I was sore, went to the can and discovered I was bleeding.

He'd been pushing to fuck me for so long, but he'd always seemed to respect that it was a line he couldn't cross. I blew him, he never blew me; he was in charge in bed as in everything else, but I wouldn't agree to that. Thought he was okay with that. Found out wrong, and that was why I left.

Tim's turned to face me, and I realize I've stopped massaging. I'm just sitting there with my hands on his shoulders, not moving.

"What's wrong? Is it--did I make you uncomfortable? Look, I don't expect anything--"

"Tim, no, it's okay. Got lost for a minute. I, I'm not uncomfortable. It feels good to be with you, really good. It's just been a long time for me, and I don't want to fuck anything up."

"You're not uncomfortable? So, it's okay, you don't mind, it doesn't freak you out?"

I move my hand up, stroke his cheek again, his beard, brush his lips with my fingers.

"I'm not freaked out, Tim."

He leans into my hand. Puts his hand over mine, brings it up to his lips, kisses my palm softly, then leans forward and kisses my forehead, my nose, my cheeks. Then his lips meet mine, so softly, slightly parted, moving against mine with gentle pressure. My cock fills as he tastes my lips, soft and gentle, incredibly erotic. It's unlike anything I've ever experienced--amazing, beautiful. Beautiful man. I'm losing my edge here, but Joe can go fuck himself. If this makes me a pussy, so be it.

Tim reaches for my torso, lifts my sweatshirt, strokes my chest, my nipples, with those long fingers. I gasp, press my tongue into his mouth, deepening the kiss, and bring my arms around him, under his shirt, glorying in all that soft skin, pulling him close. I reach up higher, and my fingers find something. It's long, raised, and bumpy, with a sunken center, close to his underarm, and I'm startled as I realize what it is. Tim pulls back a little.

"Where you were shot?"

Tim nods, face flushed.

"Can I see?" I start to pull his shirt off, and Tim finishes, grimacing a little as he pulls it over his head.

"It still hurts?"

"No, it's just a little tight sometimes."

Tim lifts his arm and turns a little when I ask, and I run my fingers over the scar, examining it closely. Jesus, it looks angry, even now, years later. No wonder it gets tight. I bend quickly and run my nose over it, enjoying Tim's clean scent, then lips and tongue. Tim's arm comes down around me, pulling at my sweatshirt, so I take it off. We kiss again, so sweet, and then Tim falls back onto the couch and pulls me down with him.

We both gasp as our chests meet, then stretch our legs out. I can feel his erection next to mine, and I bury my face in his chest and moan, rocking against him. His hands slide down my back and under my sweats, cupping my ass, working our cocks into alignment. He's kissing, licking, nuzzling my shoulders and neck, and I'm tasting first one tight pink nipple, then the other. I can feel his beard, soft and wiry, against my collarbone as he suckles my neck. Fuck that's good. I feel like I'm drowning in sensation, and all of a sudden I'm close, too close, have to back off or it'll all be over, so I break away.

"Fuck, Tim, hold on a minute, okay?"

"Something wrong, Bill?" Tim asks, reaching those long fingers around to the front of my sweats, brushing gently against the tip of my cock.

"No, no, it's just--oh fuck--Tim, this is amazing, but wouldn't it be even better without the clothes? And maybe on the bed, because you know your feet are sticking two feet off the edge of this fucking couch."

"Of course, yeah, Billy, you're right, the bed, no clothes--"

"Tim, you're babbling. Come on."

Somehow we make it into the bedroom, managing to avoid furniture, guitars, dirty clothes, and suitcases. I move my acoustic off the bed, the songs I was working on land on the floor, and then Tim's practically on top of me, reaching, pulling down my sweats, freeing my erection.

I go for his belt, but, fuck, he's managed to get it off already, along with all the rest, while I moved the guitar. We stand a minute together beside the bed, and I'm aware again how tall he is, and then I hold out my hand and guide him onto the bed beside me.

We lay there for a minute, hands on each other's hips, lips meeting for another one of those mindblowing, amazing kisses, tongues tangling, exploring, tasting. Then Tim wraps long arms and legs around me, pulling me up and over, hands on my ass again nudging us perfectly together.

I reach down, find the long, hard length beneath me, and stroke. Tim moans and bucks, then his hand covers mine and opens my fingers, showing me that we can each put our hands together around both our dicks, both slick and weeping, so close.

His other hand, still on my ass, moves lower, then lower still, caressing, moving, exploring. Those long fingers stroke from my balls to my hole and that's all it takes to send me over the edge, grunting, spraying our chests with spurt after spurt. Tim joins me seconds later, shuddering, crying out, and coming just as hard.

I rest my head on his heaving chest, my heart pounding, waiting to catch my breath, our hands still entwined around our softening cocks. That--that was fucking incredible. I know it's been awhile since I've been with someone, but I don't remember ever coming that hard, even high on coke, sharing a groupie with Joe, sharing Joe with a groupie.

Our breathing slows, and Tim caresses the back of my neck, urges me up for a slow, sweet kiss. I settle in his embrace. It feels right to be here, right to be in his arms, feeling him stroke my back.

He stops stroking, tenses up.

"Tim?" Fuck, what's wrong?

"Bill, I hate to do this, but I've got to go."

I look up and see regret in his eyes.

"Got to go, huh?"

"I've been gone for hours--someone may have noticed--and I leave in--" he looks at the clock next to the bed "--six hours for Flagstaff. Believe me, I'd like nothing better than to stay, you have no idea how much I wish I could, but I can't. This investigation--it's too important. I can't do anything else to screw it up."

"Yeah, I get that. Let's get you cleaned up, at least."

I stand up, go over to the bathroom for some washcloths, run the warm water over them, and clean his belly, his chest, his cock, which stirs at my touch, and I wish he didn't have to go, but I think about Eli and know he has to. I gather up his clothes, belt, shoes, and bring them over to the bed, moving as slowly as I can. Tim's sitting at the edge, and he grabs me, pulls me down for a deep, burning kiss.

"Bill, I don't know how to thank you for tonight. You gave me something--gave me back a piece of myself, I think--an incredible gift."

I stroke his face for a minute, trying to memorize his features.

"How long is this assignment, Tim?" I can't believe I'm asking him this, can't fucking believe how it makes me feel, knowing he's about to leave.

"Six months at least; it could be years. As long as it takes. I'm sorry I can't give you any better answer than that, and I wish more than I can tell you that we'd met under better circumstances."

"Years. Tim, I can wait years. But I want to know that you're going to be safe."

I just said I'd wait years for this man, and fuck if I didn't mean it. Just keep him safe, please keep him safe, so I can figure this out. Even if it's years.

"I can't promise that, Bill, I'm sorry. And I don't expect you to wait for me."

"I think I will, though, Mr. Secret Agent Man Timothy Bayliss. And when you're done with this, I'm planning on fucking your brains out, if that's okay."

He smiles. "Bill, I'm not a secret agent. I'm an FBI agent, going undercover. But it's definitely okay."

"If I like thinking that I have a Secret Agent Man for a lover, you're not going to take that away from me, are you? I've got to have something to fantasize about while you're off saving the world for the fucking American Way."

He laughs, kisses me again, and finishes dressing.

"Fine, fine, I'll just fantasize about my Hollywood Rock Star, Billy Fucking Tallent, who definitely has talent where it counts, okay?"

"Whatever keeps you warm at night, Tim." I pull up my sweats and follow him to the door.

"Will I hear from you? Will you let me know that you're safe?"

"I don't know, Bill. I--I may send you some more runaways, if I can, but I really don't know if I'll find any way to contact you without putting you and the investigation in jeopardy. If I can, if there's any way I can, I will contact you."

I nod, knowing he will. I hug him again, holding on tightly, then he kisses me quickly and walks out through the door.

****

After I convince Agent Klein, who came looking for me, that I just went for a long walk--"you know what it's like, man, it's my last night here and I couldn't sleep, needed to get out"--I drop off to sleep as soon as my head hits the pillow. I dream of Bill.

The next morning, I shave my beard, and someone from the Bureau comes and cuts my hair, short, like it was before Frank's stroke. They give me some new glasses--cheap plastic ones, they look odd in the mirror--and a new wardrobe. No more suits and ties, from now on it's jeans, hiking boots, flannel shirts.

It feels strange to be carrying a boot gun but no shoulder holster, no badge. I keep my cell phone, but I turn in all my identification and get an Illinois driver's license issued to Timothy B. Rawls, 41, remember that new birthday, new social security number.

Timothy doesn't believe in credit cards, resents the fact that he has to carry a license and have a social security number. He's a cash kind of guy. Doesn't trust banks because they're not on the gold standard. He's fucking nuts, a racist, homophobic, sexist pig, and I get to be him all the time now. Lucky me.

They give me a briefcase with my stake--$150,000 in a mixture of gold coin and non-sequential bills--every serial number has been copied. Timothy B. Rawls makes his money shipping illegal guns to militias and hate groups. They also give me $10,000 in cash for my own use, and I sign vouchers for all of it. The paperwork involved in something like this is pretty deep. I also sign vouchers for the IDs, three guns, four rifles, a jeep, and the Winnebago I'll be living in until I build a house in Church Canyon.

"Can I talk to you for a minute, Agent Bayliss?" It's already weird to hear my own name. I look up, and Bartlett's standing in front of me, looking, well, concerned.

"Sure, boss, what's up?"

"Listen, Tim, what you're doing, it's going to be the hardest thing you've ever done. You'll have no way to contact us easily--you'll be on your own, with no one to talk to. Going undercover is hard enough when you've got support nearby."

I nod to show I'm listening. I've been expecting this little pep talk.

"I just wanted to let you know that I think you can do this, and do it well. We all know this is an extremely important assignment, and an extremely dangerous one. No matter how much we want to take Eisen down, he's not worth your life. If you need to, you get the hell out of there, understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. I know you've memorized the contact words and numbers. I only hope you won't have to use them. We'll expect monthly reports to the PO box in Flagstaff."

I nod again, gather up my gear, and follow him down to the service elevators. We take an unmarked car to the airport, watching to make sure we're not being tailed. The Winnebago, jeep hitched behind it, is in long-term parking. I get in it and head to Flagstaff, trying not to think of Bill.


	2. Being Under

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim's in Church Canyon, thinking of Billy.

I've been here a month now. It's weird what starts to seem normal. Meeting Eisen (the Holy Father) in Flagstaff, that was, well, a unique experience. I don't know why, but I was really, truly surprised when he smashed my cell phone, calling it "a device for evil, Brother Timothy." Wonder how Bartlett reacted to that when he got my report. Eisen's crazier than that guy Rausch that did the church fires. Has a lot in common with him, though--too bad he doesn't have Rausch's heart condition.

There are no phones here. No televisions either. Thank whoever that Holy Father Eisen finally decided to accept electricity. Phones, television, radios, computers, all evil, but microwaves are somehow okay. Like I said, it's weird what starts to seem normal.

We brought up my house yesterday. Drove with Brothers Joseph Eisen and Brian Smith up to St. George to pick it up. They drove the big rigs that hauled the two modules, and I drove the truck with the big yellow "wide load" sign and the flashing lights, all the way back, through Hurricane, Colorado City, the speed trap by Hildale, through Kanab, and back to Church Canyon. Felt sorry for the folks behind us--it's hard enough to pass one truck on those roads, much less two oversized ones.

I would have utterly no idea what to do with these two halves of a house, but the folks here are pretty experienced. It's already unloaded at the site near the back of town, and they're working on putting it together like some sort of giant Lego house or something.

Tomorrow I'll move out of this Winnie and into my new house, and from the inside it will look normal, except for the fact that there won't be a tv or a phone or a stereo. Or a basement. Only building in town with one of those is the church, and I gather it required a fair amount of dynamite. I wonder how the Orioles are doing. I don't even know when opening day is this year.

Playing the role has been easier than I feared. It's kind of a high, sometimes, like being in the Box all day, every day, but it's not as fun without someone else to play off on, someone who's in on the joke, someone who knows I'm just playing bad cop, all the time now. All the time, Timothy B. Rawls, bad cop.

I have two times when I can escape Rawls and let myself remember Tim Bayliss--early morning, and late at night. Every morning, I go for a run. The Holy Father encourages his brethren to stay physically fit. We have to be ready to defend our God-given rights against any and all aggressors, after all.

So I wave to my neighbors, wave to the guards who let me out the back gate, and I run down the gravel road by the creek. Sometimes I run north and west, right into Grand Staircase/Escalante, following the creek bed so I don't get lost. There are no trails, really, because there's not enough ground cover to need them--I just run, run on the sand and the rocks, startling mice and hawks, the occasional coyote, once even a rattler in the sun.

It's amazingly beautiful out here, no question, but I don't think I'm a desert person. Been here a month and I'm already starving for something green. Nothing but red, brown, and grey out here, and the bright blue sky, marred only by the yellow smudge from the Navajo Generating Station. I climb up and notice the snow is almost melted on Navajo Mountain, 40 miles away as the crow flies.

This particular ridge, across Wahweap Creek and hidden from view, is where I stop most days. I take a swallow of water and stretch my legs out, then do a few yoga poses--something no member of Eisen's Holy Brotherhood would be caught dead doing. I take a small notebook out of my hip pack and write down some notes, stuff that's been going on in the town.

I think there was a stoning last night, but I can't be sure--haven't been fully initiated into the church yet. But my neighbor Stephanie Peters wasn't there to wave at me this morning, and I know there's been a rumor going around town that she's been giving the eye to Paul Johnson. They won't kill her for that, I think, I hope--just hurt her, the way they hurt practically every woman in this town at one time or another.

I'm to meet with the elders next week to discuss my upcoming marriages, who's available, who I fancy. I'm not sure how much choice I'll really be given--Eisen will no doubt have someone, some ones, in mind. Since I've been here I've seen men married to women and girls ranging from 7 years old on up to 67.

Stephanie's youngest daughter, Ruth, is being pursued by Joseph Eisen, one of the worst of the Holy Father's 28 sons. She's eight years old. I see her shyly peeping out at me from behind her mother's curtain sometimes. If I get any choice, any choice at all, I'll request her. Anything to save her from Joseph. He's been widowed twice now, I hear, both girls in their early twenties he'd been married to for ten years or so, and his current wives are 21, 17, 15, and 12. The twelve year old is about 6 months pregnant.

I finish up my notes for this month's report. Tomorrow I'll head east, towards Big Water, and drop it off at the post office there, along with my subscription renewal for Guns and Ammo and my cash contribution to the NRA. And one more envelope, addressed to William Boisy, Los Angeles, California.

This will be the first time I've contacted him. I'm pretty sure it's a stupid idea, but I'm also pretty sure no one in Big Water is paying any attention to the mail. I've gotten enough letters put in the wrong post office box to prove it--I mean, it's not like there are a lot of them, only 150, and they still can't manage to get it right. So I don't think anyone will notice a letter to William Boisy in Los Angeles.

I promised him I'd let him know I was all right. So I lied and wrote that I was. I won't be all right until this assignment is finished, won't be able to sleep at night until Eisen and the rest are behind bars. Until I know that men like Joseph Eisen aren't marrying 7 or 8 year old girls, that women aren't getting stoned for looking crosswise at someone.

I roll the notes and the letter up tightly and put them in a hidden pocket in my pack. It's time to head back to the Canyon for another day. Tonight I have guard duty. I'll spend it thinking of Bill, just as I do each evening, whether I'm at home or on guard. Amazing how much he got under my skin in such a short time. Amazing how much I miss him.

****

I come home from rehearsal tired, wound up. The new songs are starting to work, but it's hard to get into the music. I'm yelling at everyone, more than usual, and Kat finally takes me aside, tells me I need to chill out, why don't I head on home. She hasn't had to do that in years, and I realize for the first time just what a dick I've been lately.

She asks me what's wrong, is everything okay, and for a minute I almost tell her, but of course I can't, so I lie, say I'm trying to quit smoking again and it's making me irritable. She looks at me funny for a minute, and I realize I've smoked at least half a pack this morning during rehearsal.

"Look, Kat, okay, it's not that. It's personal, and I can't really talk about it. Do I want a drink? Yeah, I want a drink. Same as always, no more, no less. I'm not going to go get one. Not going to go score. I just--I've got some things on my mind is all. Some personal stuff."

She gives me a long look. "Billie's okay?"

"Yeah, it's not anything like that. I'd tell you if I could."

"Don't let him haunt you anymore."

I know she's talking about Joe. "I won't."

I turn to go, but she grabs my arm, gives me a hug.

"Bill, I don't know what's going on, but if you need anything, call me, okay?"

I hug her back and promise I will.

So I get home, and as usual there's a pile of mail waiting, junk and bills, and I leaf through it, putting most of it in a pile to throw in the trash. Then I realize there's an envelope there, no return address, and it's got my name on it--my real name, Mr. William Boisy, handwritten, not typed or printed like the stuff that comes from lawyers, agents, and bill collectors.

I've gotten quite a few letters like this, hand-addressed, no return, over the years, but they've all been sent to Billy Tallent. Mostly from sick fucks who tell me Joe's still alive, or that they've got his body, or that they think I should die, too--lovely letters. But this one--the handwriting looks familiar, and it's addressed to Mr. William Boisy, not Billy Tallent. And the postmark--the postmark is from Kanab, Utah.

Jesus fuck.

I drop the rest of the mail on the table and head out to the patio, my hands shaking as I rip the envelope open. There's a small sheet of notebook paper inside, wrinkled and folded. It's just a few lines.

_Dear Bill,  
Every morning I take a run along a (mostly) dry creek bed. There's an old road that leads to it--the road goes behind Big Water out to a gravel pit, I think where they got gravel for the dam back in the 60s. The road's only about a mile from the back of town, the creek a little further._

I come out here every morning for some peace, some time for myself. The sky here is incredible, such a bright blue, like your eyes.

I'm okay. I'll try to write again.

\--Tim

I must sit there for an hour, looking at the sky, reading the letter over and over, unable to move.

****

Today's my wedding day--well, the first one, anyway. Thank God it's not legal.

At four o'clock this afternoon, after the afternoon service, I'll be marrying Sarah Elliot, age 14. I've only spoken to her once, when I told her she would be marrying me (men don't ask in Church Canyon). She looked scared to death, but with a little bit of defiance in there too. Good. I think I can deal with defiance better than I would with the absolute subservience that's the rule here.

She's Eli's cousin. He mentioned her during his debriefing in Flagstaff, said they were close. Said Sarah likes to sing.

I still don't know how I'm going to handle tonight. I don't know what she'll expect--there's certainly no sex ed taught here, and the women are kept in the dark about everything.

I'm on edge through the whole service, then the ceremony and small reception. Weddings are the only time women are permitted to drink, so I encourage Sarah, keep refilling her glass with the cheap wine. The men around me nod knowingly, sure I'm getting her pliable for later. I'm thinking, maybe if I get her drunk, she won't remember that nothing happened. Or something.

There's no dancing or music at this reception--such things are seen as sinful. So basically all we do is have a nice dinner, nice by Church Canyon standards, which means I play around with the steak on my plate, force myself to eat a few bites of it, and devour my salad and baked potato. Sarah looks hungry, so I give her the rest of my steak, and she smiles a shy thank-you.

I have got to find some way to keep being Timothy Rawls and still not hurt her.

The reception ends around 8, curfew time for women and children, and the whole town escorts the two of us home, laughing and teasing along the way. I pick her up and carry her over the threshold easily--she must weigh all of ninety pounds.

Once we get inside, I close the door, then put her down by the sofa.

"I thought you might like to see the house."

"Yes, please, Mr. Rawls."

"Sarah, you can call me Timothy."

She blushes. "Holy Father called me Mrs. Rawls tonight and at first I wasn't sure who he was talking to."

"Getting married is a big change, something we'll both have to get used to. And Sarah, I know I'm a lot older than you--please let me know if I do or say anything that makes you uncomfortable."

She looks surprised. "Thank you, Timothy," she says awkwardly. Apparently I'm not what she expected.

I show her around the house, and she's excited when she sees my books. I don't have many, and most are here for cover, but there are a few others I thought would pass muster--Crime and Punishment, some Kipling stories, David Copperfield, Shakespeare's plays--nothing by a woman, and nothing modern.

"Do you like to read, Sarah?"

She looks at me before she answers, then decides the truth might be safe. "Yes, sir, I do."

"This is your home now, too--if you want to read any of my books, you may--just be careful not to let anyone see you."

"Really? Thank you, sir!"

"Would you like something to drink?"

I manage to get another glass of wine into her, and she's definitely feeling it. She's looking a little green around the gills. I ask her if she'd like to take a bath or a shower.

"You have a bathtub?" She's happy about this--very happy. Why?

"Yes, of course I do, Sarah, don't you have one at your mom's house?"

"No, just a shower stall. I haven't had a bath since--since before we moved here, when I was 10. I used to love to take baths. Can I really?"

"Anytime you want, Sarah." Amazing that such a simple thing could bring her such joy.

I show her the towels, tell her where she can put her things, let her take her pick of the two spare bedrooms.

Eventually, when I have other wives, one of them may move out to the Winnebago, but neither of us mentions that. I tell her to take her time and enjoy her bath, and I close the door.

I put on some pajamas--haven't worn pajamas in years, it feels funny--get under the covers, and read. When I hear the tub start to drain, I turn off the light and lay down, feigning sleep.

I hear the door open a few minutes later.

"Timothy?" she says tentatively. I pretend to sleep. She crawls into bed next to me, carefully not touching me. Within moments, her breathing deepens and slows, and I sigh in relief. She's asleep.

I get out of bed as quietly as I can and go to the sofa for a few hours' sleep. I return before dawn. She's still asleep, clutching her pillow tightly, looking very young, very innocent.

I write her a note and go for a run, but she's still asleep when I return, so I make us some breakfast. It's another fifteen minutes before she emerges, in a nightgown and swimming in one of my robes.

"Good morning, Sarah--would you like some breakfast?"

"Good morning, sir. Yes, some breakfast would be good."

She devours the eggs, toast, and juice as I watch and eat mine. When we're both finished, she looks at me curiously.

"You were gone when I woke up, sir."

"Yes, I go for a run every morning, early. It helps me clear my head."

"Timothy--sir? Last night--that is--were you pleased with me?"

"Yes, Sarah, very much so."

"Because--well, I fell asleep, and--"

"Sarah." I interrupt her in as firm a voice as I can manage. Please let me handle this right.

"Yes, sir?"

"Believe me, if I am displeased with you, in any way, you will know about it." I'm leaning over the table towards her, using the most menacing attitude I can muster. It works, dismayingly well--she looks terrified.

I lean back in my chair, good cop again, and add, "however, Sarah, if you continue to please me, you will find me a very accommodating husband. And I think you will find that my needs are few. I want the house kept clean, food on the table, laundry done and folded, all without complaint. This is the last meal I will prepare for you. And I want to be left in peace. If you do those things, Sarah, you may read any book or magazine in the house, and at meals you may ask any reasonable questions that you have. Is that clear?"

She nods. "Yes, sir."

"Good. Have you brought all of your things over from your mother's trailer?"

"Yes, sir, I have, except--"

"Except for what, Sarah?"

"It's nothing, sir."

"Sarah."

"It's just--it's just a book, sir, and my cat, her name is Georgia."

"You have a cat?"

"Yes, sir, but my mother said you might not like cats, that I wasn't to mention it, and I'm sure she'll be fine, at least I hope she will be, sometimes my mom doesn't feed her too good."

"I'm going to ask you something about the cat, and I'm going to trust you not to lie, Sarah."

"Yes, sir?"

"Is this cat well-behaved? Does she make messes where she shouldn't, claw up the furniture, meow all night?"

"Oh, no, Timothy, she's very good, and I'll keep the litter box so clean, and clean up any hair, and I promise, you won't even know she's here."

"All right, then, Sarah, you can have your cat. But know that I'll hold you to your promise. Now, what is the book?"  
"The Velveteen Rabbit."

"Isn't that a children's book?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, I suppose it couldn't do any harm, then."

"Oh, thank you, Timothy!" She's up and around the table and giving me a hug. I hug her back, gently, then pull away.

"Go on then, go get your cat and your book. I need to take a shower."

We establish a pattern--she takes a long bath each night, and I pretend to be asleep when she crawls into bed. She rivals my mother in the cleaning department--the house is spotless. She's also an excellent cook, and seems to have noticed my dislike for meat, preparing a lot of pasta, beans, and fish. She happily takes my arm when we walk to church, and I often find her sitting on the sofa, away from the window, reading intently.

At dinner, we talk about Dickens--she's reading David Copperfield. I haven't brought up Eli yet. I've been singing in the shower, atrociously, hoping she'll take the cue and realize she can sing, but so far no luck. I want her to know she can trust me, but it's such a delicate thing, because I have to be able to trust her, too, if I'm ever going to have her help getting some kids out of here.

I can see a question in her eyes each morning when I get back from my run, and I'm not surprised one night, three weeks after the wedding, when she asks me a rather pointed question during dinner.

"Timothy, can I ask you something?" At least she's gotten over calling me 'sir' every five seconds.

"What is it, Sarah?"

"At night, you're always asleep when I come to bed, and you get up before I do. I thought--you know--I thought we needed to--you needed to--aren't we supposed to do something besides sleep?" She's bright red, and I suspect I'm blushing too.

"Sarah--" I pause, start again. "Sarah, our Holy Father feels that it is right for us to be married, and I agree. However, the truth is, I don't feel comfortable having a physical relationship with someone your age, and I don't feel someone your age is ready to become a mother, physically or emotionally."

"You don't?"

"No, Sarah, I don't. Not yet."

"Oh."

I can see that she's shocked, that this idea has never occurred to her before.

"Martha Eisen, she's only twelve, and she just had a baby."

"Martha Eisen is not my wife. You are. I am your husband; I make the decisions in this house. Joseph Eisen makes the decisions in his house, for his wives."

She nods.

"And Sarah--" I reach across, grasp her chin firmly, turn her face to look at me. "What Brother Joseph does in his house is his business, not to be discussed. What you and I do in my house is our business, and I will tell you this just once--it is not to be discussed with anyone, understood?"

"Yes, sir."

****

I got another letter from Tim today.

_Dear Bill,_

I'm rereading Shakespeare's plays. Are you Puck, or Ariel? Lately I feel a little like Prospero, on the island, or maybe more like Caliban.

I still look at the sky every day, bright as your eyes.

I've started guard duty some nights. I hope to have a package for you soon.

I'm okay. I miss you.

\--Tim

It's been over three months now. Billie's coming for her summer break in two weeks, and we've been doing some more dates in the meantime. I've been gone for almost three weeks, fuck knows how long this letter's been sitting here.

I still think of him every day, but it's gotten a little easier. That night in Las Vegas is a memory I cherish, but it seems more and more unreal as time goes on. It seems impossible that it could have been as amazing as I remember.

Reading the letter, though, it all comes back as if it were yesterday, the sweetness of his kisses, the trust he gave me, the feel of him in my arms. And I'm a fucking putz, a total waste, sitting out on the patio again, looking at the sky, wondering if I have a copy of the Tempest somewhere.

It sounds like he thinks he might be able to send me a runaway soon. Guard duty--what the fuck is that? I don't like the tone of the letter. The last one--he sounded confident, like he was taking good care of himself. This one, he sounds a little lost.

We've been working on some new songs, and Chelle and Kat both commented the other day on the "new melancholy, the bluesy touch" they've noticed in me. They've asked me a few rather pointed questions about Joe, about the date coming up this fall in Vegas, about when Billie's getting here, but they've seemed satisfied with the answers, or at least satisfied enough not to push.

They like the songs I've been writing, seem to like them a lot. And I'm writing, writing all the fucking time, can't seem to stop, and it's good, because when I'm writing, I'm not as worried, not as scared that any day now I'm going to get a call from Agent Bartlett telling me Tim is dead.

I got a letter from Eli before we left on tour. He very carefully didn't say anything about Tim. He's living out near Denver now, with a foster family, relatives of Bartlett's assistant, Zoe. I sent him tickets to the Denver show coming up next week, the last date on our spring tour, told him to bring his family by backstage after the show.   
The letter was all about his new family, new school, the music he was listening to, all the way until the last paragraph. "I still have nightmares sometimes," he wrote, "but it's getting better. I don't know if I ever thanked you for being so cool that night after the concert. I'll always remember you. And your music rocks!" He signed it, "love, Eli."

I'm looking forward to seeing him again next week.

****

Last night I asked Eisen if I could marry Ruth. He looked surprised, and Joseph looked pissed, but he said yes. I think he's pleased I took the initiative. I've been speaking up at the Elders' Meetings, and although I don't have a vote yet, not until I'm confirmed as an Elder, I seem to be gaining their respect.

Tonight I went over to Rebecca Eisen's house to talk to Ruth. She's been staying there for the past couple months, ever since her mother was caught with Paul Johnson and stoned again. This time they didn't stop. I was on guard duty that night, so I didn't find out about it until the next morning.

Paul was one of the men who stoned her to death. He's been pale and quiet ever since, not saying a word in meeting. If he'd refused to stone her, they just would have killed him as well.

Rebecca has the decency to look appalled when I tell her I'm marrying Ruth next week. I wish I could allay her fears, but I can't. I wish I didn't have to do this, but I see the way Joseph's been watching Ruth, following her when she goes out to play, and I'm afraid that if I don't do something now, it'll be too late--it might already be too late. I hope it's not.

Thankfully, Ruth doesn't seem scared of me. I don't follow her the way Joseph does, but I gave her a hug and told her I was sorry she had to move away after her mother was killed, and she seems to remember me with a little affection. That might also be because I've sent Sarah over to Rebecca's with cookies a few times--Rebecca's a notoriously bad cook.

I've been talking with Sarah about her brothers and sisters, trying to get her to talk about Eli without bringing him up directly. I'm still singing in the shower, and I think it's starting to work--yesterday I heard her singing under her breath as she folded clothes.

I walk in the house after coming back from Rebecca's. Sarah's got dinner ready, and she brings it to the table with a smile as I sit down. Tonight we have macaroni and cheese that has never seen a box, broccoli, and homemade bread. She's put the crunchy peanut butter on the table next to the butter. Without one word from me, she's managed to figure out what I like to eat, what I need to eat, and tonight's meal is perfect, down to the fresh-squeezed orange juice and apple pie for dessert.

"Sarah, you are a fantastic cook. Who taught you to do all this?"

"My mom taught me some of it, but my sister-mom, Charlene, taught me how to bake, before--"

Charlene Eisen was Eli's mother.

"Before what, Sarah?" I ask her gently.

"Before--before she died, sir."

"Before she was killed?"

"Yes, sir, before he--before they killed her, sir."

Sarah's been living with me for over two months now. I've caught her looking at me a lot lately, puzzled, thinking. I'm pretty sure she knows there's more going on with me than meets the eye. If I'm going to help her, help Ruth, help the other kids in this horrible town, I think it's time to tell her at least a little of what I'm doing here.

"Sarah, I have to ask you a question, and it's very important that you answer it completely honestly, without worrying about whether you'll please me. Can you do that?"

"I think so, Timothy."

"All right. Here's the question, Sarah--do you trust me?"

"Do I trust you?"

"Yes, Sarah--do you trust me? Do you trust me not to hurt you? Do you trust me enough to tell me the truth about what happened to your sister-mom?"

"I'm not sure, Timothy. I think I do. I don't think you'd hurt me."

"That's a very fair and honest answer, Sarah, and I appreciate it. Now I have to ask you another question, okay? This one is just as important. Actually, it's the most important question I'll ever ask you. I promise you that I only want you to answer me honestly, and I think you know I've never broken any promises to you."

"No, you haven't."

"All right. Here's the question. If I tell you about some things, can I trust you? Can I trust you not to tell anyone, not to ask me for more information, not to in any way betray the trust I'd be putting in you? Not to tell anyone, no matter how much you wanted to?"

There's no hesitation this time. "Yes. Yes, Timothy, you can trust me. You've been good to me, and I wouldn't do anything you didn't think was okay, I swear to holy Jesus."

I grasp her hands, give them a squeeze. "Thank you, Sarah. Thank you. Now come on over to the couch, because I have to talk to you about your cousin, Eli."

I tell her just a little bit, and most of it's a lie, but it's closer to the truth than anything I've said to anyone since the moment I met Eisen in Flagstaff last spring. I tell her I know Eli escaped, I know he's okay, and that I know this because I have a wife, a legal wife, living in St. George, and Eli is living with her. I tell her I picked Heather up hitch-hiking one night, and she told me about what went on here. I tell her that Heather and Eli are both doing well, and that my wife and I are working with Utah Child Protective Services to try to get more kids safely out of this town. I tell her I'll be marrying Ruth so that I can protect her from Joseph.

I can see that she wants to believe me, but she's seen a lot in her fourteen years, and she's scared this is some sort of trap. So she asks me to prove I'm not lying.

I tell her that Eli's favorite band is Jenifur, and I sing what little I can remember of his mother's favorite song. I tell her that Heather and Eli used to listen to Charlene's cds. She stares at me in shock for a minute, then starts to cry. I pull her into a hug, and she holds on tight, crying silently, burying her face in my shoulder.

That night I dream again of Billy holding me in his arms, rocking me, telling me over and over that it's okay, and for a moment, when I first wake up, I can still feel his arms around me and hear his voice.

****

Billie and I have a great time over her summer holiday. We do the usual--Disneyland, Universal Studios, soccer with the rich and famous. She's grown at least an inch since I saw her last, and we celebrate her 11th birthday at Spago at her request. Wolfgang Puck comes over with her birthday cake, and she's so excited, tells him she watches him on the Food Network.

My little girl is growing up, but she still wants me to sing her to sleep every night. Fortunately she doesn't expect me to sing anything from her second favorite band, *NSYNC. Although for her, fuck, I'd probably sing anything, even Britney Fucking Spears.

The last week before she has to go back to her mom's, we take a trip up to Seattle, which is as close as I'm willing to go to Vancouver. I show her some of the places I used to hang out when I was her age, and we go swimming, and it's wonderful, and then before I know it I'm dropping her off at the airport, hugging her like I never want to let go.

I get home late, nearly midnight. I never can sleep on planes, so I'm tired. It's July 31st, and it's been over two months since I heard from Tim, and I'm worried, so the first thing I do is look at the mail that's been neatly piled up by Gloria, my efficient and annoyingly cheerful assistant.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding when I see the familiar writing.

_Dear Bill,_

There's an interesting rock formation between Big Water and Church Wells, just a little west of Church Canyon, on the south side of 89. It's hard to miss during the day, but it's difficult to see at night, unless there's a full moon and you know where to look. I like night-time guard duty during the full moon, always try to sign up for that shift.  
The next full moon is August 23rd. Between 9 pm and 3 am, it's pretty spectacular out here--you wouldn't believe the stars, and you can practically see well enough to read. I wish you could see it--I think you might find some surprises out here in the desert, similar to the surprise we found the night we met.

I'm okay. I miss you. Your eyes would be silver in the moonlight, I think.

\--Tim

Jesus fucking christ. He's found a way to do it, a way to get a kid, or maybe kids, out, and it's gonna happen in a few weeks, and he's counting on me to be there.

So that's how I find myself flying first to Phoenix, then taking a prop plane to Flagstaff, then to Page, Arizona. Not much to look at, the town of Page. Has a whole street with nothing but churches on it--fucking creepy. But Tim was right about one thing--it's beautiful out here. Now Lake Mead is impressive and incongruous out in the desert by Las Vegas, but it doesn't hold a candle on either front to Lake Powell, the gorgeous fucking monstrosity created by the Glen Canyon Dam. Everything is red and blue.

I've decided to play the tourist, something this area gets a lot of. They even get their fair share of celebrities, who come out here to film action sequences and westerns. So I do my thing in my rented Jeep, take a raft trip down to Marble Canyon, a boat trip up to Rainbow Bridge, hike around down by the Paria River, see the slot canyons, drive all over the place and look stupid and awestruck, which is not difficult.

I even drive down and spend the day at the Grand Canyon, which is beyond imagining. The signs down there say, Grand Canyon--100 miles--You've come too far not to see it. I saw it, and I'm glad I did. Someday, maybe I'll take one of those raft trips that meander down the Colorado, stopping and camping along the Canyon.

Turning into Nature Boy, Billiam?

And what if I am? Fuck off, Joe.

I've driven past Church Canyon a dozen times on one trip or another, and I'm very familiar with the rock formation Tim wrote about. It's almost like a mini-arch, except it's not, and it's in the middle of a pretty flat and boring stretch, so it is hard to miss. I stop by it one day and look around. There's some graffiti on it, broken glass around it. I think I can park around behind it at night and not be visible from the road.

Every time I get close to Church Canyon, I want to drive up to the gate and get Tim the fuck out of there. Place looks like a fucking prison--concrete walls around the front, barbed wire on top, and it looks like there's a nasty chain link fence around the back.

I've been in Page for four days when I decide to do something really fucking stupid. Tonight's the full moon--it's my last chance before I have to get myself and a runaway or two out of here. I drive out to Big Water very early, around sunrise, and I find the dirt road Tim wrote me about--at least, I think it's the one. I drive west on the road for awhile, until I can see the fence around Church Canyon a couple miles away. I park the jeep, and I get out, trying like fuck to just look like an ordinary tourist, reminding myself I'm on public land. I walk off to the right, away from the road, away from the town, and finally hear the sound of water that according to my map must be Wahweap Creek.

It's a little cool, this early in the morning, and I'm glad I brought my jacket. The sun's coming up to the east, and I find a nice rock, open up my backpack, and take out an Egg McMuffin from the McDonald's in Page. Yeah, that's me, cool as a cucumber, just a tourist enjoying some breakfast in the wilderness. I think if I actually ate anything I'd puke.

So I just sit there, feeling like a fucking dink. I have no way of knowing which direction or what time Tim runs every morning, or even if he's still running. But I'm this close, and I'm not leaving without trying to see him.  
My heart's racing, my palms are sweating, and I'm about to jump out of my skin, because it occurs to me that Tim might have company when he runs, and it's going to be hard for either one of us to pretend we don't know each other.

Maybe I should just go. I'm supposed to be here to pick up some kids who need help, not to fuck up and put Tim in more danger than he's in already. I put the stupid McMuffin back in my pack. I stand up, half-decided, and then I hear the regular crunch of gravel approaching from the west. A few seconds later, Tim comes around the bend. He doesn't see me at first--he looks like he's thinking pretty hard there, not to mention running pretty fucking fast--but then he looks up and stops dead, staring. Then he frowns.

I wave. Fucking doofus, that's me. He stares some more, looks around, jogs over to me, then past me, gesturing silently for me to follow. I run after him, grateful that he's slowed down. I manage to make it through some rocks and then we're crossing the creek--shit the water's cold--and once we get over to the other side, Tim slows to a walk, looks around, then grabs my hand and pulls me around a corner and behind a row of stunted trees.  
I'm startled by the sudden shade, and then I feel Tim's arms around me, damp with sweat, and his lips on my forehead, and I reach up to kiss him. He tastes so good, his lips fresh and moist, a little salty, his tongue warm and slick against mine. He doesn't say a word as he breaks the kiss, just grabs my hand and pulls me along again, walking quickly and carefully through the sagebrush until we reach he canyon wall in front of us. He pulls me behind a ridge in the wall I hadn't even noticed, and then he pushes me against the rock and kisses me again, long and hard and hot, hands cupping my face, cock grinding into mine.

We finally break apart to breathe, chests heaving, and I'm running my hands over his hair, so short now, so soft, and his face, no beard, just some stubble.

"Bill--what the fuck are you doing here?" he asks in an urgent whisper.

"You shaved," I murmur, and latch onto his lips again. He groans, then pulls away again, holds me at arms length, glaring at me.

"I missed you, and I was in the fucking neighborhood--" I begin, whispering. I don't know why we're whispering, but I'm going with whatever right now, because I've got six feet five inches of beautiful, sweaty FBI man here, and that's all I need to be good. Better than good. Fucking great.

"Bill, god, it's so good to see you, you have no idea, but you can't be here. Eisen sends men down here all the time on patrol," but I'm more interested in sucking on his fingers than what he's saying, "oh jesus Bill;" he takes a breath, refocuses, "he thinks the ATF's sending agents down here to spy on him. I'm safe, they know me, but you can't be here. Bill, if they see you, if they see us, they won't hesitate, they'll take us down."

It's hard to concentrate on what he's saying rather than on his fingers in my mouth, the feel of his body against mine, but it finally registers.

"Okay, okay, I hear you. But, Tim, fuck, you send me that letter, and I get my ass down here to help out, and I'm so close, so close to where I know you are, and fuck, I couldn't help myself."

He takes a big breath then, lets it out in a deep sigh, and wraps his arms around me again, and we just hold each other this time, and it's every bit as amazing as I remember, just being in his arms.

"God, Bill, it's so good to see you," he whispers again.

"Good to see you, Tim. Good to know you're okay." He sighs again.

"Tim? You are okay, aren't you?"

"What? Yeah, yeah, of course. Of course I'm okay."

I look at him. I wait.

"It's just hard, is all, Bill. Really hard. This place--" he gestures towards the town "--it's, well, I've seen a lot of death, a lot of people you might call evil, but this place is worse, some of these people are worse than I've ever imagined people could be."

"And you have to pretend to be one of them. Jesus, Tim. Okay, I'm not sorry I'm here, because I think you need to hear something, and you need to hear it now. Are you listening?"

I hold his face between my hands, look in his eyes, make sure he's paying attention. My days of not telling people important shit died with Joe.

"Tim--what you're doing here--it's got to be tearing you up inside. Your whole life right now is a mindfuck worse than anything Joe Dick could come up with, and take it from me, that's saying a lot. But I'm telling you this--you're a good man. You're a good man doing an awful fucking job, the worst kind of job, so that these evil motherfuckers will go down. You are saving people's lives. You'll save lives tonight, when you help whoever you're helping to get out of this fuckhole. You are a good man doing the best you can in a completely shitty situation."

I stop a minute, see if any of this is sinking in. Looks like it's starting to, a little.

"I know you, Tim Bayliss. Not sure how or why, but I know you in my fucking bones. I've seen you in action, when you put your life on the line to keep Eli from blowing his brains out. And I'm telling you that Tim Bayliss is kind, intelligent, warm, insightful, and dedicated, not to mention the sexiest thing on the planet. And I want you to remember that, remember who you are: Tim Bayliss, not Timothy Rawls. Any time you feel overwhelmed by your evil twin, remember that there are people out there who know the real you, care about the real you. You get that?"

He nods, but I can still see doubt in his eyes. "I've done things," he says to me, and I put my finger over his mouth.

"Tim, we've all done things. We all do what we have to in order to survive. I've fucked up six ways to Sunday--booze, drugs; I've lied to people, hurt people, you know a little about that, but you still manage to see something worthwhile in me. We're none of us perfect. You don't expect it of other people, don't expect it of Frank, of me. Don't expect it of yourself. Let up a little."

He sighs again, promises me he'll try. I grab onto him again and hold on tight; he nuzzles my hair and holds me just as tightly, stroking my shoulders. We're both hard as nails, but we both need what we're doing right now more than anything else. I know any minute he's going to pull his disappearing act again, but I hope he waits a little longer.

We probably stand like that for at least ten minutes, but it's still all too soon when he pulls back a little, kisses me, tells me he has to go. He insists on doing his cop thing, checking ahead of me to make sure the coast is clear, all the way out to my jeep. He even pulls his gun out of an ankle holster, holds it up in front of him, just like they do on tv.

I try to steal one more kiss as he puts me into the jeep. He tries to glare at me again, but can't quite pull it off. He's still hyperalert, looking and listening for any bad guys to protect me from, but he's put his gun away.  
"Take care of yourself, Secret Agent Man, okay? Because when you get out, your ass is mine."

He smiles at that, pats my cheek. "Get out of here, Rock Star." He closes my door, then leans through the open window and kisses me quickly. "Thanks, Bill."

I nod, start the jeep, and drive off. I can see him in my rearview mirror for at least five minutes, watching me drive away. I fucking miss him already.

****

Sarah and I don't say much at dinner. We're both on edge, knowing tonight's the night. I don't start guard duty until 9, and I've been up since 6. Tried to take a nap earlier, but all I could think about was Billy.

What a shock, seeing him sitting there this morning. I was just running, on autopilot, really, thinking through the plans for tonight. I don't know what made me look up when I did, but I almost fell flat on my face.

What a stupid, idiotic, wonderful thing for him to do, risking his fool neck like that. How incredible to touch him, kiss him, smell and taste him. To have him remind me of who I can be when I'm with him. Who I'll be when this is all over. Hopefully with him.

It scares me how much he's come to mean to me. I barely know him--have spent so very little time with him--and he knows so very little of me, of the things I've done. When he said he knew me, knew I was a good man, I wanted to argue with him, tell him he was wrong, he couldn't possibly say that about me if he knew the truth.  
But at the same time, I knew that everything he said was true. He does know me in his bones, as I know him in mine. And he knows that his past doesn't matter to me--the drugs, the fights, the nights he spent in jail, none of that matters, because the person he is now is everything he said I was. Kind, intelligent, warm, insightful, dedicated, sexiest thing on the planet. Not perfect. Human. And tonight he's going to do what he said I was doing--save people's lives, help them get away from here. If anything happens to him, if anyone hurts him, I think somebody better take my gun away from me.

"Timothy? Are you all right?" I look up, meet Sarah's worried expression.

"I'm fine, sweetie--just thinking about tonight, hoping everything goes okay. Where's Ruthie?" Ruth and Sarah share a room, a bed, and Georgia the cat. The three of them sleeping together is a wonderful sight, knowing at least they're here, they're not in danger of being raped. It makes me wish I could marry every girl in this town, just to keep them all from harm.

"She's over at Rebecca's, playing with Beth and Lisa. She's going to have dinner over there tonight."

"That's good. It's better that she--I don't want her to see me right now."

She nods. So much she's seen in 14 years.

"Listen, Sarah--you and Ruthie--I need to talk to you about you and Ruthie, about how you're going to get out."

"We don't need to get out, Timothy, we have you! You won't let anything happen to us."

"Not if I can help it, Sarah, but there's always a chance--"

"I don't want to talk about this, Timothy," she says firmly. Her confidence has grown by leaps and bounds these past couple months.

"Sarah, we have to talk about it. Listen to me. There's always a chance that the Holy Father will find out I've been helping people, and if he finds that out, if anything happens, I have to know that you and Ruth will be safe. The two of you are very, very special to me, sweetie, and I have to know you'll be okay. We have to talk about it so I know you'll do what I tell you and get yourselves out of here if I can't protect you anymore."

She starts to cry, but she's listening. I tell her Bill's name, have her memorize his address, his cell phone number. I don't know why I don't give her Bartlett's number, but I don't. I tell her what he looks like, so she'll recognize him. I tell her where I've hidden some money, where the rock formation is. Tell her if we don't have much warning, I'll try to get her and Ruth out the back, that they'll need to get to Big Water to call Billy, but if we have some time, some warning, we'll try to leave together, have him waiting for us.

I tell her all this, much more than I should. If Eisen gets to her, threatens her, it will all be over, for all of us. But it won't be over for the FBI; that cover will stay intact, along with all the evidence I've sent.

I had to tell her, so that there's a chance she and Ruth will be all right, even if I'm not. After I'm sure she understands, sure she knows what to do, I give her a hug and head out to meet Daniel for guard duty.

****

That night, I drive back to the Canyon. The full moon, as promised, is spectacular. As I get closer, I turn off my headlights. There's enough light to drive, and no traffic. I pull off the road a few minutes before nine, park the jeep around the back, and wait.

After awhile, I dig my acoustic out of the back of the jeep, move over to the passenger side for more room, and start to work on a song. The next time I glance at the clock on the dash, it's after midnight. I decide to get out for a minute, stretch my legs.

Now I've been outside at night before in Western Canada, as far from civilization as I am now. Unfortunately, perhaps, it was only to take a piss by the side of the road, usually drunk as a skunk. Tonight I'm sober, relatively calm, maybe even a little happy, after seeing Tim this morning. So I lean back against the rock, look up at the sky--and the stars are fucking amazing. Even with that bright moon competing for attention, I can see why they call it the milky way, and I'm wondering why I never bothered to notice stuff like this before. Freak.

I'm still sitting there, watching the stars, listening to the occasional truck or car go by, when I notice someone approaching me from the road. He looks like he's about 18 or 20, tall, well-built, and nervous. I give him a little wave, let him know I see him. I smile at him.

He walks up to me cautiously. I keep sitting--figure I'm less threatening that way.

"Mr. Boisy?"

"Yeah, that's me, kid."

"You're a friend of--"

"I'm a friend of Tim Rawls." I stand up, offer him my hand. He shakes it, still cautious.

"The jeep's around the back. We should get going, get you out of here."

"Wait a minute, Mr. Boisy, there's--there are a couple more of us. I'll let them know it's safe."

"Go ahead. I'll start up the jeep, pick you guys up. I don't want to stick around here any longer than we have to."

"No, that wouldn't be a good idea," he says, and smiles for the first time, in relief I think.

I was expecting one, maybe two. There are five of them--Daniel, Gordon, Susanna, Elizabeth, and Cassandra. The three girls are sisters, 13, 10, and 6. I'm not sure, but I think Susanna may be in the early stages of pregnancy. Daniel and Gordon are 19 and 20, and when I see how they look at each other, I know why Tim got them out. I don't think any hint of homosexuality would be tolerated by Eisen.

The girls fall asleep right away, but Daniel and Gordon keep me company through the long drive. By the time we reach Flagstaff, it's almost 5 am. We stop for some breakfast--the girls are asleep, and when I wake them they look terrified for a minute. Everyone eats a fuckload of very good food at a local diner.

I've been thinking a lot on the way down here. I needed to figure out what and how to tell them about Tim. How to tell them that as soon as the Bureau office opens, I'm taking them to the FBI.

I light a cigarette and drink my coffee as they finish their meal. Daniel's the first one to break the silence.

"Mr. Boisy?"

"Call me Bill, Daniel, okay?"

He nods. "Bill, then. We don't know how to thank you for what you've done. When Tim first approached me, told me he wanted my help getting people out, I didn't know what to think. And then, when I realized he really meant it, when we started making plans, all I thought about was actually leaving, not what happens after."

"And now you're wondering what's next?"

"Yeah." He looks at Gordon. "The two of us, we'll be okay, and we'd be happy to take care of the girls, too, but I don't know how easy that will be, how long it'll take us to find jobs, a place to live, and Susanna needs to go to the doctor--"

"It's okay, Dan. We'll get her there, don't worry. But there are some things I need to tell you first, all of you. What exactly has Tim told you about why he's in Church Canyon?"

"He said he worked for the state of Utah," Gordon says. "For Child Welfare. He said he got involved after Heather ran away, that he helped her and Eli. Are we going to see them?"

Fuck. "I hope you'll be able to talk to Eli soon, guys, but I'm afraid I have some bad news about Heather. Tim--Tim's trying to help her, trying to help her by making sure that the people who killed her are put in jail. Tim is working with the FBI to get the evidence to do that."

"Heather's dead?" Susanna asks, starting to cry.

"Yeah, she is, kiddo. And Tim was afraid that more girls like her were going to be killed as well. That's why he wanted you kids to get out, and why I agreed to help him after I met Eli."

The waitress comes by then with my change, and she looks at me like I'm an abusive parent when she sees Susanna crying. I give her some patented Billy Tallent charm and she lightens up a little. After she leaves, I start talking again.

"We're going to have to get going soon, kids, so I can take you to the folks who are working with Tim. They're going to take care of you, but they're also going to want to talk to you about Tim and about what happens in Church Canyon. I promise that they won't hurt you--they'll take care of you."

"What about you, Bill? Aren't you going to help us anymore?"

These are the first words Cassandra's spoken since I picked them up. I smile at her.

"I hope I'll get the chance to help you some more, Cassandra. I have a little girl about Elizabeth's age, and I would love it if all of you could come and meet her when she visits me in California. But the most important thing is that you're safe, and you'll be safer right now with Agent Bartlett than you would be with me."

"What about Timothy? Will he be safe?" Gordon asked the question, but they're all looking at me, waiting for the answer, and I don't think I can lie to them.

"I hope so, Gordon, I hope so. The truth is, the longer he stays in that town, the more danger he's in. That's why you need to tell Agent Bartlett everything you can about what happens in Church Canyon. The sooner they get enough evidence against Eisen, the sooner Tim will be safe."

I stop, suddenly realizing I'm exhausted. Exhausted, and worried about Tim. I don't know whether the Bureau has anyone there before 6 am, but I don't care anymore. I gather the kids together and take them over there, pausing as I get out of the car, remembering Tim in the parking lot. Remembering Tim on the road, yesterday morning, watching me drive away. Fuck.

I debate just dropping the kids off, but I believe too much of the speech I just gave them for that. It's possible that something I know might help finish this investigation sooner. It's probably important that I tell them about the patrols Tim spoke of, and Eisen's fear of the ATF.

So I sit through hours of questions, what seem like hours of Bartlett yelling at me for getting involved, reminding me I'm in this country on a green card. I tell them I'll let them know when Tim writes me again. I tell them I saw him, just 24 hours ago now, and that he was doing his job, but that it's hard for him there. I tell them Tim is my friend, that I will do anything I can to help him.

I don't tell him any more than that, but I suspect he knows, and in a weird way he seems grateful. He stops threatening to deport me, for one thing. I realize that he's just as much in Tim's corner as I am, and after that it's a little easier to take his frustration with me for fucking up his investigation.

He lets me go at last, I think because he realizes I'm about to fall asleep on the conference table. I get a chance to hug the girls goodbye, give Zoe a hug too, shake Gordon and Daniel's hands. I give them all my number, tell them to get in touch when they get settled. Bartlett's arranged for a hotel room, return of my rental car, and a ride to the airport in the morning, so there's nothing left to do but crash. I sleep, then head back to LA via Phoenix.

****

I'm called before Meeting to be interrogated about the escape. I think I manage to successfully divert their attention onto Daniel and his friend, Gordon. I admit to the elders that I've had some questions about the way he's been acting, hint that he and Gordon spent a little too much time together, that sort of thing. I'm chastised for not bringing this to their attention, and I promise not to let it happen again.

I hope it's enough to get me by a while longer. Meeting Daniel was a stroke of luck, since we were often scheduled for guard duty together; I couldn't have gotten so many out together without help from another guard. From now on it will be much more difficult.

I wish I could have taken Daniel up on his offer to stay behind and help with more escapes, but I know I'm not the only one who's noticed the attraction between him and Gordon, and I couldn't risk it. For them both to be safe, they both had to leave. Now, for all of us to be safe, I'll need to lie low. No more letters to Billy, lots more spouting of the party line.

It's a little easier, now. I know that I've sent five people to safety, along with a lot of evidence. Not enough evidence, not yet, to convict Eisen of murder, but enough evidence of child abuse and rape to convict not only Eisen, but a few of the elders as well. That's enough to keep me going. That, and the memory of Bill's words out by the creek.

Each night now, as Ruth and Sarah sleep, I remind myself of what he said. I remind myself that there are people out there who care about Tim Bayliss, and that Bill Boisy is one of them.

I also remember his eyes, his talented hands, the taste of his lips, the sounds he made when he came that night in Las Vegas. The few minutes of pleasure and release I give myself, thinking of him, only ease the ache I feel for a short time.

I've been here six months now, six months that seem far longer than the six years I spent partnered with Frank in Homicide. I hope I won't still be here in another six months. I doubt I'd be able to keep this up that long, no matter how hard I try.

For now, I'm here, and that's what I should be concentrating on. I tell myself what I imagine Frank saying--"Quit whining, Bayliss, just do your damned job!" And that's enough, for now, to let me sleep.

A month later, Eisen tells me I'm to marry again, this time to one of his daughters, Jessica. She is 17, an old maid by Church Canyon standards, and has a reputation as a trouble-maker. She's the one that reported Stephanie to the elders the second time, the time that got her killed.

I am expected to see it as an honor to be offered one of Eisen's daughters, so I tell him it is, but I'm scrambling to figure out some way out of this. Not only is Jessica a trouble-maker, she's also out to gain her father's favor in any way she can.

I think he's decided she'll make a good spy. I've shown no signs of getting Sarah pregnant, after all, and I suspect she and Ruth are just too relaxed, too happy, for people not to notice. And then there's the fact that I was guarding with Daniel the night he escaped. No, Eisen's definitely not convinced by the bad cop routine anymore. He suspects something, and he's sending in Jessica to find out what my secret is. And Jessica being Jessica, I don't think it will take her long to find a way to pull me down, hoping it will bring her up closer to dear old Dad.

I've managed, somehow, to put off the wedding until next month. Once Jessica's in my house, I don't know how long I'll have. I've got to start making plans to get Sarah and Ruth, and maybe some others, out of here.

****

I've been keeping in touch with the kids. Billie came out for Thanksgiving break, and I invited all six of them over for the weekend. It was good to see her, especially after getting back from Vegas, which was just as hard as I thought it would be, but for totally different reasons. It was the end of September, not October, and I was thinking of Tim, not Joe.

I told Billie the kids were foster kids I'd heard about, who I wanted to help out. She didn't question that, even when she saw how old Gordon and Dan are. She didn't have any problems with the way they were together, either, which I suppose means there are at least some things that are good about hanging out in Hollywood with her dad. Mary and I managed to keep any information about my relationship with Joe away from her, but I've sometimes worried that Mary's homophobia would affect her. Glad to see it hasn't.

All four girls have gone to bed now. The boys are sitting out on the patio with me, enjoying the breeze. The kids from Church Canyon were a little confused by having Thanksgiving dinner a month early, but they seemed to enjoy it nonetheless.

I think Gordon and Dan are holding hands under the table, where Eli can't see, and all of a sudden I can't get Tim out of my mind. It's October, and I haven't heard from him since I drove away on that dirt road and watched him in my mirror. Bartlett's called me a couple times to ask if I've gotten any letters. He won't say much, just that Tim's been sending in his reports, but I can tell he's worried.

The boys are worried, too. I think they've been waiting for the right time to ask me, and sure enough, now that we're alone out here with our testosterone, Eli speaks up.

"Billy, we were wondering--have you heard from Tim? Agent Bartlett won't tell us anything."

"No, he doesn't tell me much, either. Just that he's gotten Tim's scheduled reports, that's all. And no, I haven't heard from him, but there have been times before when I haven't heard from him for a couple months."

"But you're worried about him too, aren't you?" asks Dan. "I mean, I know you guys are close--" he pauses, unsure.

"Yeah, we're close. And I am worried. I've been worried ever since he left for that fucking place."

"What he did for us--I know he had a plan to blame the whole escape on me, say he suspected something about me and Gordon, but I also know he took a hell of a risk sending me with the others. I tried to get him to let me stay, so I could help him, help take the heat off, but he wouldn't consider it. He insisted that people suspected how Gordon and I felt about each other, and that we had to leave right away."

"That sounds like Tim. He wouldn't want to put anyone else in danger."

"Bill--he told me something that night, before we left. He told me that I could trust you with my life. He told me he'd seen you that morning, so he knew you'd be there. And he told me he understood, about me and Gordon. He didn't say any more than that, but I could tell what he meant. I'd never seen him like that. He was--he was tense about that night, confident at the same time, but he was also happy. When he told me he'd seen you, jeez, Bill, he smiled a real smile, you know? I'd never seen that smile before. So I just thought I should tell you that, that I could tell how much you mean to him."

"That's--thank you for telling me that, Danny. Tim--he means a lot to me, too, and I really miss him, so thank you for telling me."

I have to look away from them as I'm saying this, because I'm remembering that smile, and I want so badly to see it again that I'm afraid I'm about to make a fucking fool of myself in front of these boys. Freak. I take a big breath, let it out. The boys stand up, one by one, and give me a hug, tell me they're off to bed. Hugs from teenage boys--we're all freaks.

Everyone leaves the next day. I spend half the day taking kids to LAX. I come home, call Bartlett. No news since the last time I called him, which was three days ago. I've been doing pretty well on the whole nicotine habit, especially when Billie's around, but tonight I go through most of a pack in about two hours.

****

Things are getting bad here, getting worse every day. I'm marrying Jessica in three days. Last night--last night Joseph Eisen raped Sarah. I came home from Meeting--I remember that I was relieved he wasn't there that night, so I didn't have to look at him--and Ruth was crying in the bedroom, saying Sarah was in the bathroom and she wouldn't come out.

I talked to her through the door for almost an hour before she'd come out, and then she just hugged Ruthie, wouldn't let her go, and cried. I thought she'd be safe, married to me, but I was wrong. I've got to get her out of here, her and Ruthie both. She was bleeding. She wouldn't tell me much, but she said he'd been surprised by how much she bled. He's pretty stupid, but I think he'll probably be able to figure out why.

The next full moon is in 8 days. I sent a letter to Bill today, and I hope he'll get it in time. I sent the bureau report last week, need to notify them of what's going on now, but lately Joseph and certain other of his relatives have been in the post office when I'm there, watching me. I don't feel safe trying to mail anything else for a few days, at least. I slipped the note to Bill in with the electric bill, hoping no one noticed. If I could have gotten to the pay phone, I would have called, but they were watching me too closely.

He fucking followed her home from Rebecca's. Ruth was with her, but stopped to say hi to a friend. He took her into his house and he held her down and he raped her. She has bruises on her wrists just like Adena's.

****

It's a couple weeks after everyone left, and I head in to rehearsal, manage to lose myself in the music for a while, smoking continuously like back in the old days. I even have to do the band aid routine afterwards. It takes forever to get home, and when I get there I can't decide if I'm more or less scared by the fact that there's a letter waiting from Tim. Reading the letter solves that little conundrum--definitely more scared.

_Bill--_

Next full moon.

\--Tim

That's all there is. Fuck. FUCK. It's post-marked six days ago. When the fuck is the next full moon? I think maybe Chelle and Kat might know--they're kind of into pagan stuff. Jesus, fuck, my hands are shaking so badly I have to dial the number twice. Please be home please be home.

"Hello?"

"Kat, listen, it's me. I need to know something, and I thought you guys might clue me in."

"What's wrong, Billy?"

"This is gonna sound fucking weird, but I need to know when the next full moon is. It's really fucking important."

"You at home?" There's a definite tone of suspicion in her voice.

"Yes, Kat, and I know I sound fucking crazy, but I swear to you, a friend is in trouble, and I know it doesn't make any sense, but I can't help him until I know when the fucking moon is going to be full!"

"Hold on a minute, Billy, I need to look at my calendar. Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yes, Kat, I'm okay, I'm just worried sick about this friend of mine."

"You fucking better not be lying to me. Oh, here it is--okay, the next full moon is Wednesday."

"Wednesday? Like in two fucking days? Fuck! Listen, I'm gonna have to go out of town for a few days--don't know for sure when I'm gonna be back--"

"Because you have to help this friend on the full moon?"

"Well, yeah. Kat, this is something--I wish I could tell you more, and I will when I can, but there's some serious fucking shit going on, and I can't tell you any more than that. Look, you want me to stop by for a urine test, blood test, smell my fucking breath, I'll do it, but then I have to leave for Phoenix."

"You have to go to Phoenix because there's going to be a full moon. Okay, I don't claim to understand any of this, but for some fucking reason I believe you. You've been acting weird for months, but I know you haven't been using. Go, and be careful, and help your friend. And Billy, call us, okay? Let us know you're all right?"

"I will, Kat, soon as I can. And thank you."

"You're welcome. Go, before I change my mind."

Two hours later I'm on the plane to Phoenix. Three days after that I'm on a helicopter on my way back to Phoenix, accompanied by medics. The medics don't pay me much mind, though--they're too fucking busy trying to save Tim's life.


	3. Out from Under

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy comes and gets Tim out, but not without some consequences.

I've been waiting here since 8:30. I came last night, too, just in case. Nothing last night, fuck all tonight, and now it's after 4. I know, because I've been looking at the fucking clock every 30 seconds. I was a good boy, let Bartlett know I was coming up here to pick up some more runaways. He wanted to send some agents up here with me, but he said Tim's reports made him think it would be safer not to do anything that might attract any more attention. Then he wanted to send an agent in my place.

I said no fucking way. I know that's a fucking stupid thing to do, but I also know the kids will be expecting me, not some FBI agent. If they find someone else waiting for them, they might try to run on their own.

I look out the window again, and this time I see two kids approaching, moving slowly. I open the door and gesture them inside. The older girl is pale, and she's trembling; she looks to be about 12 or 13. The younger girl is fighting to stay awake, and very worried about her companion.

"You kids all right?" I'm starting the jeep as I say this--it's time to get the fuck out of Dodge. The older girl looks up--fuck, I don't know what's happened to her, but whatever it was, it was really fucking bad--and answers me in a polite voice that's totally at odds with the fear in her eyes.

"Yes, thank you, Mr. Boisy. But listen, you're a friend of Timothy, right? Because I think he's not okay. I heard some of the elders talking, saying he was a deviant, and I think they're going to do something to him."

What? FUCK. "Okay, look, I'm going to take you down the road to Big Water. You'll be safe there for a little while, and I've got to make a phone call, and then I'm going back. While we're driving, I need you to tell me everything you can about where he might be, how I can get him out. He's--he's in a lot of danger, and it's going to take some time for anyone else to get out here to help."

I can't believe this. This is not fucking happening. And the girls, they look relieved, grateful. Tim means something to them, too.

It takes me too fucking long to get through to Bartlett, and once I do he's not exactly thrilled to be hearing this from me. He wants details, and he wants me to sit tight in Big Water, or better yet head to Page, but I think I manage to get it through his head that there is no fucking way I'm going anywhere but back to the Canyon. Yeah, they'll be coming, as fast as they can, but we both know it will take them too fucking long to get up here from Flagstaff, and the Page Police are no match for Eisen's thugs.

So by the time I get back into my car and head onto the dirt road behind Big Water, forty-some fucking minutes have already gone by. Yeah, I'm back on that road again, looking for the creek, trying to figure out a way to sneak in to Church Canyon. Sarah says I might be able to get in by climbing the fence in the back. She says there are supposed to be guards, but a lot of times they neglect their duties, go back into town, when there's going to be a stoning. So they can help out.

A stoning. They have Tim, they think he's gay, or something, maybe his cover's blown. And they're going to stone him to death like some fucking Shirley Jackson story.

I can't stop shaking. She's not sure, but she thinks that's what they'll do--it's what they do to women who commit adultery, try to escape, question their husbands, or look at a church elder cross-eyed. She doesn't remember it ever happening to a man, but she thinks that's what they have planned.

I try to drive carefully, lights off, slow speed, keep the noise down of tires on gravel, but can't help pounding my fists against the wheel, cursing under my breath. I turn off by the creek, hide the car among the few trees, and walk quickly towards the town, breaking into a run now and then when I'm reasonably sure no one from the town can see me, or when I can't stand walking anymore. The moon's getting ready to set, but it still provides all the light I need.

I see the fence up ahead, but no guards, so I climb up and over. Cut my hands a little, catch my jacket on the barbed wire at the top, but I hardly notice. If Sarah's right, they have him in the church, in the basement. Shouldn't be too hard to find, seeing as it's the biggest building in a town of mostly trailers and pre-form housing. I don't see anyone around--women and children are inside at this hour, but Sarah warned me about dogs and guards. So far so good.

I get to the church okay and start looking for a door, a window, something, preferably not in the open. I spy a window and drop down onto my belly and look inside.

There are a bunch of men standing in a half circle, facing the wall. Tim's up against the wall. Fuck. He's pale and thin, too fucking thin. They've stripped him down to his boxers, and they've beaten on him some. Has a black eye, split lip, but otherwise he looks okay. The grey in his hair's more noticeable with it that short, or maybe his time here has aged him. For once, he looks his age.

Behind the men--fuck, behind the men there's a large pile of rocks. A lot of them look like something has stained them, dark streaks on the yellow-orange, and I'm no geologist but I don't think it's mineral deposits.

And they're yelling at him, I think, but I can't hear what they're saying through the reinforced glass--place is built like a fucking bunker. He just stands there, so vulnerable, hands tied behind his back, and I want to fucking tear the place down with my bare hands.

So I get up onto my feet, stay crouched down, and try to make my way around to the front of the building. There's only the one door--don't know how the fuck I'm going to get in there, but I'll figure something out. This is like something out of Alphaville, or that Heinlein story, or 1984.

There are two men--boys, really, look about 17 or so, but fucking big and mean--standing in front of the door. They're carrying what to my admittedly uneducated eye look like AK-47s. Some sort of machine gun. Tim would know. So I crouch there, trying to think, hoping they'll decide to take a break or something. No such luck.

"Don't move, maggot." Shit. Something cold presses up against the back of my skull, no doubt another fucking machine gun. Well, the problem of getting in is solved, but it doesn't do shit to get us back out again. I'm just going to have to find some way to keep us alive until the troops arrive. Better hope they learned something from fucking Waco, Billiam, whispers Joe in my head.

They frisk me, pull off my jacket, and cuff my hands behind me. Then they drag me up by the wrists. I'll take bad action movies for 400. Next thing I know, Sylvester Stallone's going to show up to save the day. The gun nudges me towards the door, and then they lead me downstairs.

They open up a steel door, and I hear a sound reminiscent of playing catch with my dad on one of those rare days he acted like a father, sounds like the ball hitting the glove. Then I hear a soft grunt and realize what I'm hearing is the sound of stone on flesh. They've started. Shit, Tim, hold on. I take a deep breath, try to get some control. There's a faint odor of decaying flesh, and I think again of the stains on the rocks and almost puke. Jesus fucking christ, let that SWAT team come soon.

"Elders, excuse me for interrupting your business, but I found this intruder sneaking around outside." Gun man shoves me forward, but I manage to keep my balance. Barely. Then I see Tim again.

He's kneeling on the floor, bruised and bloody, breathing hard. He doesn't look up.

"Well, what have we here? If I'm not mistaken, this is quite an honor. Gentlemen, I believe we have the pleasure of meeting Mr. Billy Tallent, guitarist for the heathen rock band Jenifur." The speaker--must be that fuckhead Eisen--is tall, muscular, handsome, charismatic, but his eyes are colder than Joe's were on that sidewalk in Edmonton.

"I go by Bill Boisy now," I say in as calm and quiet a voice as I can. Tim gasps and looks up, meets my eyes with the one of his that's still open, then schools his face back into quiet courage.

I can't fuck this up. I can't make this worse, what the fuck can I do to get us out of this? Eisen slaps me, hard, across the face, and I realize I'd stopped paying attention the minute Tim saw me.

"I don't give a fuck what your name is, boy, what I want to know is what a godless sonofawhore like you is doing here!"

"I was vacationing over at Wahweap, and I was driving around, and I got lost. I saw the town lights and thought I might find a phone here. Guess I was wrong." Now Joe, maybe he could've come up with a better story, but it was the best I could do.

"Now just how stupid do you think we are, here, boy? You want us to believe you climbed over a fence just looking for a phone?"

Psycho Cult Leader comes closer, then closer still. I can smell alcohol on his breath, see how bloodshot his eyes are. Those eyes are truly crazy, Charlie Manson crazy, and his white robe has dark stains on the cuffs and along the bottom, and I think I know what they are, too.

"Now I happen to know that your evil influence has been felt in this town, among our dear children. Your music, Mr. Boisy, so-called, has been found among our youth, and it has led some to stray from our Heavenly Mission. That must stop. How convenient that you happened to show up tonight, how coincidental that Sarah and Ruth are missing, and here you are."

"Whoever Sarah and Ruth are, I'm sure they're better off somewhere else, but I don't know what that has to do with me." I hope they're safe, on their way to Page, to the police there.

All of a sudden I'm on my knees, head spinning, blood dripping down my ear. Gun Man hit me from behind, hit me with the fucking rifle.

"We have rules here, maggot, and one of them is, don't speak to our Holy Father without permission. Don't break that rule again, understood?" I nod, slowly. I'm on the same level as Tim now, and he meets my eyes again, briefly, intensely. This time I have to look away, afraid my face will betray both of us.

"Now that we have you here, Mr. Godless Demon, maker of the Devil's music, I think we're gonna have to make some sort of example of you, make sure our youth stray no more. The question is, what sort of example? Should we do for you as we're doing for Mr. Godless Homosexual here, and leave your bodies out for the crows and coyotes, or should we try something else? I need to think on that. Elders, what do you say?"

"Stone them both, Holy Father!"

"Stone them both!"

"Stone them both, but stone them on the town square!"

"Yes, Holy Father, let all the town witness!"

The voices are hushed, reverent, and fucking insane. These Elders, the youngest in his forties, the oldest perhaps 90, are wearing black robes that match Psycho Cult Leader's white one. I expect Lord Foul to show up looking for his white gold wedding ring any time now. The ones who didn't speak are nodding, agreeing as one now--the stoning of godless heathens, e.g. Tim and Bill, should take place in the open air for all to see.

There might be hope, then, maybe. Don't know how long it takes to stone someone to death (depends on what they're aiming at, Billy Boy). I guess I should be grateful they're not just the take 'em out the back and shoot 'em types. Figure it'll take at least a little time to round up the townspeople, even if there are only a few hundred of them. It was close to five when I left Big Water... We might still make it, hang on until the cavalry arrives. And at least I should get a chance to touch him again, hopefully tell him how sorry I am.

They drag us both to our feet and push us up the stairs, side by side. Tim manages to brush my fingers with his, a quick caress. His fingers are cold, and I press my arm and side up against him as much as I can without drawing their attention. He starts to shiver when they open the door.

I need to find some way to let him know I tried, I didn't just rush in here without trying to get help, but I can't figure out how to do that without alerting the psycho fuckheads. So as we start down the stairs in front of the church, I fake a stumble and brush a kiss against his shoulder, hoping that's somehow enough.

***

For the second time in my life, I resigned myself to dying. Almost wish I had, the first time--gunshot hurt like a sonofabitch, but then it was over. This--who knows how long this is going to last, before they're done playing with me.

Kinda funny they've decided I'm gay. It's just something Jessica made up to explain why I wouldn't sleep with her; even she doesn't believe it, vindictive bitch. And they haven't said anything about Sarah. No, they don't know any of my real secrets--the FBI, Billy, Luke Ryland. Although I suspect they'd have no problem with that last one.

It does make a sort of biblical sense, I suppose--belated punishment for taking a life. Did they use to stone murderers? Of course the executioners were always absolved, back in the old days, before legal loopholes and over-worked prosecutors.

I've done a lot of thinking about Ryland while I've been holed up in this horrible place. Thinking about shooting him, how good it felt, just for an instant, and how I'd puked my guts up afterwards, one more thing to clean up, can't leave a trace behind. Then I got myself over to the squad room and cleaned out my desk, after I told that little prick Danvers I was sorry for what I'd done.

Thing was, I wasn't sorry, not then. I was numb. Had been numb for awhile, ever since I found out I was a hell of a lot better cop than I was a Buddhist. Don't get me wrong, I still believe, at least part of me does. Try to live in the moment. It's the only way to make it through the day sometimes.

But Buddhism--I'd been to a couple services with Chris, thought it was interesting, but I never really got into it until I got out of Shock Trauma and faced the months of rehab before I could get back to work. With no Frank to talk to, I was rudderless--everything was grey, not even different shades, and I needed to find a new moral compass.

So I became a Buddhist, and it helped, it really did. I thought I'd finally found a way to be. But when it came right down to it, I sacrificed my beliefs to save my life. When that gun was pointed at my face, I forgot all about Buddhism and did the cop thing. And everyone told me it was a good shoot, which is was, but no one got that it killed something in me as well.

Ryland, outing me like that, using my website to stage his internet murder, that was bad enough, but having Gee tell me I had to delete it, that I hadn't expected. Lieutenant Al Giardello, the best Lieutenant in the whole Baltimore City Force, the man I'd looked up to almost as much as I looked up to Frank, let me down. Let me down again when he ordered me to apologize to Danvers. No one had looked at me the same way once I became that gay cop over in Homicide, but I'd thought Gee was different. Guess I was wrong.

So shooting Ryland, it felt good, for just a second, because for once I had somewhere to put all my hate. That was what I'd needed absolution for. I knew I was saving lives by putting him away--he was ready to head off to New Orleans and start all over again, and you know he'd be harder to find this time, having learned from his prior mistakes. I couldn't let that happen, and both my heart and my head were in agreement on that one. The problem was, as usual, that it wasn't just black and white--it wasn't just an execution, it was revenge, revenge against everyone who'd ever hurt and betrayed me, from my father to Frank.

That's why I asked Frank for absolution. But he refused, said he couldn't, yelled at me for putting this on him. Maybe he knew there was more to the story than I was telling him, knew I didn't mean it when I told him I'd eat my gun. He always knew things about me before I did, used that keen brain of his on me as often as he used it on a case.

We both knew he'd never put me in Jessup. And that meant I'd never see him again, because he'd heard one too many confessions, and now he needed absolution too, for watching me write Ryland's name in blue under Meldrick's cases and then walking out the door. I've always wondered what happened when Meldrick saw that on the board. Did he think it was a joke? He obviously never did anything about it.

So maybe this is payback. All of a sudden I feel free of a weight I've carried for years. Payback, punishment, absolution, suddenly none of it matters, because they may kill me, but I've finally sent enough evidence down to Flagstaff that these crazy cultists will go down, no legal loophole large enough for them to escape, and maybe that's absolution enough, for all of it, even Ryland. Maybe that's enough to let me die with some peace.

So I stand up, shoulders back, and face the circle of men in front of me. Eisen throws the first stone, a glancing blow on my belly, and I think, maybe this won't be so bad, dying. At least I had that one night with Billy. Then more of the men start throwing, and I realize it's going to be worse than bad, dying will be the easy part, if I ever get there, and I try to concentrate on breathing, on staying upright, but before I know it I'm on my knees, grunting as each stone--rocks, really, and fucking sharp ones--contacts a different part of my body. I find myself wishing one would hit my head, hard, and end it, but it seems they want to play with me awhile.

A minute passes without any blows, then another. I don't know why they stopped, don't really care, just stay here on my knees trying to catch my breath. Then Holy Fucking Father Eisen is saying something, and it's Billy's name, and I hear his voice, achingly familiar. It says he goes by Bill Boisy now, and I look up with the one eye that can still see a little, and he's standing there in front of me.

Billy's here. Why is Billy here? How the fuck? Sarah must have said something, and of all the stupid, idiotic, dumb-ass things to do, what the fuck does he think he's doing? He's here, and he's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, and he's going to get himself killed, same as me, and there's not a damn thing I can do about it. But even near-sighted and one-eyed, I can see the fire in him, and I know why he came. He came because I was here, and he was nearby, no one else was. That gives me the courage to look away, before anyone notices the current running between us.

Eisen's really on his holy father kick now, going on and on about how evil Billy is. They knock him down, and our eyes meet again, and this time he has to look away to hide the pain he's feeling. They've apparently decided to hold a special kind of town meeting, with the two of us as the star attraction. Eisen's really lost it, then--he's always been so careful to keep some things under wraps, here in the church basement, so people in the town could safely pretend not to know.

Before I know it, we're heading up the stairs, too soon, but at least we're close enough that I manage to brush his hands with mine. His fingers are warm, and he leans closer to me so I can feel the heat coming off his wiry body. Even so, I'm shivering now that the door is open. I'm a little ahead of him as we go down the steps. I hear him stumble a little, then feel warm lips against my shoulder, wordlessly telling me to hold on, and I feel a little stronger.

When I first saw all the sand out here, I wondered why everyone, even the kids, wore hiking boots or sandals instead of going barefoot. I quickly learned the reason: nasty seed pods called goats heads, with evil spikes that latch on to everything. The few times they'd gotten me before, they'd left a burning and tingling behind as well, no doubt some sort of irritant protection for the seeds, as if the spikes weren't bad enough. I wince and stumble as we walk to the town square--must hit at least five or six of the suckers--but Billy's there again, somehow managing to get his shoulder in front of me, keeping me from falling.

They've finally got us where they want us, I guess, because they take off the cuffs and tie our hands together so we're standing back to back. Billy steps back, and I lean into the warmth of his shoulders.

Joseph Eisen binds our ankles together with duct tape, then moves away. Billy leans his head back and breathes into my ear, "It's good to see you, Tim."

I bite back a startled laugh, then feel his breath again, warm and soft, lips almost touching my ear.

"Tim, fuck, I'm sorry. I knew it would take too long for them to get their SWAT asses in gear, and I thought maybe I could do something. When the girls told me what they were going to do to you, fuck, I couldn't just let it happen. There was no way I was going to sit by again while someone I cared about died. There's still a chance, maybe they'll get here before it's all over, but either way, they're coming, and they're taking Psycho Cult Leader down."

If I lean back, just right, and rest the back of my head against his shoulder, I can see a little of Billy's face. One eye, black in the moonlight; his nose, his temple, his cheek. I can't tell if Joseph or anyone else can see what I'm doing--the eye on that side of my head is the one that's swollen shut--but right now I really don't care. I turn my head and kiss Billy's temple.

"Thank you, Mr. Boisy, for everything. I hope--I hope I'll have an opportunity to make it up to you."  
I can't see very much, but I couldn't miss that quick smile.

"I'm going to hold you to that, Secret Agent Man," and suddenly we're both shaking with quiet, desperate laughter.

"Tim, I think the sun will be up soon; it's getting pink over there. That's got to be worth something, the sun coming up." A quick brush of lips against my ear, then a nudge to straighten up--the crowd is beginning to gather, men bringing rocks up from the church basement, and young boys collecting small, sharp, pieces of gravel. It's just like the movie of The Lottery they made us watch in junior high, the one that gave me nightmares for a week.

At least Sarah and Ruthie won't have to watch, won't be participating. Bill talked to them, so they're safe, they've got to be.

I shiver again, and Bill presses up against me, warmth radiating through the thin shirt behind me. One way or another, it can't be much longer.

"Welcome, brothers and sisters in God." Eisen's behind me, probably on the church steps. "Our usual judgment happens in the privacy of our inner sanctum, but this morning will be different. You all know Timothy Rawls, consecrated husband to Jessica, Sarah, and Ruth. Last night, Jessica came to me, in righteous anger, and told me the horrifying truth about this deviant. Timothy Rawls, my brothers and sisters, has never consummated his holy marriages! You may ask why, as I did, as Jessica did. The answer, my family, is that Timothy Rawls is an abomination. He is a ho-mo-sex-u-al, my family, and we shall not suffer him to live and pollute God's earth any longer!"

I'm shivering again, and this time I can't stop. Eisen just keeps on, shouting out like an old time revivalist preacher, preaching hatefully about Billy, the satanic influence who poisoned their youth. I close my eye, focus on my breathing, try to center myself. Surprisingly, it works, better than it ever did when I tried to meditate for hours. Bill's breathing slows with mine, but he's shivering now too, and Eisen just keeps whipping the crowd into a frenzy.

"We have a holy duty, my brothers and sisters! We must not suffer these evil men to live! Our brethren have gathered the stones, friends. Let us cleanse this town with sinners' blood!"

I hear Eisen grunt, and then Bill grunts in answer, rocking back against me with the force of the blow. That's how it starts, blow after blow, some sharp and glancing, some that so hard I can't breathe. Bill leans and shifts, manages to escape some of the throws, but I can't see well enough to avoid any but the weakest ones.   
Suddenly my right knee explodes in pain; I hear bones popping and can't help crying out. People notice that, and there aren't many more random blows. They're focusing on my right leg, my right knee, using bigger stones, throwing hard, and I buckle and almost fall, trying desperately to stay upright, to keep quiet. I can't help the tears running down my cheeks, burning the cuts on my face, but I manage not to make any more noise. I keep hearing and feeling the sickening cracking and popping, and I don't know how much longer I can last.

"Fuck, Tim, hold on. Lean on me, damn it, hold on. Stay with me, Tim, stay with me."

Bill's supporting most of my weight now, somehow keeping me standing. I've stopped shivering, actually feel kind of warm, and very tired. Hypothermia, shock, whatever, I really don't care. I remember this feeling, this place, and I know what comes next. I listen to Bill's voice, soothing despite the desperation, and concentrate on staying upright a little longer.

Then I'm on the ground, on top of Billy; he's pulled me down on top of him, and it feels like there's a tornado going on. He rolls us on our sides and yells in my ear.

"They're here, Tim, hold on, we're gonna make it."

I try not to, I really do, but I just can't keep my eyes open anymore, and I surrender to the lethargy, the blackness, that washes over me.

***

I'm fucking sick and tired of the hospital run-around, made worse by scores of FBI agents who want to tie me down and squeeze out every detail of every conversation I've ever had with Tim, Sarah, or anyone else even remotely connected to this "unfortunate situation." Unfortunate situation, my ass. Eventually they get it--they're not going to get anything out of me until I know Tim's okay. They leave me alone after that. Except for the agent who is always watching me, "for my protection." Guess they haven't rounded up all of Eisen's thugs yet.

Tim passed out on me before any of the fuckheads realized their agent was tied to the guy on the ground screaming his head off to get the fuck over here. Fortunately Bartlett was there, and he figured it out, and once that happened, they got us on stretchers faster than I thought possible. They tried to take Tim on the helicopter without me, but I shoved my way on. Since I was injured, too, they gave in. Good thing, because I was going on that helicopter no matter what.

They transported us to Good Samaritan Hospital in Phoenix. The medics on the helicopter are fucking amazing. By the time we've been in the air five minutes, they've covered Tim with a warming blanket, got two IVs running, put him on some sort of monitor, put oxygen on, and they've put some sort of pressure dressing on his leg. Me, they pretty much ignore, but I don't give a shit, since we all know Tim's the one who--the one who could die.  
It's fucking loud in the helicopter, worse than a concert, but they give me some headphones to wear, and that helps. As soon as they seem somewhat confident Tim isn't going to die right that minute, one of them comes to check me over. She puts a blood pressure cuff on me, something on my finger, pads on my chest attached to another monitor, and sticks oxygen on my face, too. Then she wraps another blanket around me, smiles, and gives me the okay sign. I hate to admit it, but that simple kindness almost makes me cry.

Tim doesn't open his eye until we're on the track between the helicopter pad and the ER. I grab his hand, try to smile at him. Once we get inside, I realize he's trying to say something, but I can't hear what it is. We stop in front of an elevator--they're going to take him right up to surgery--and I lean down to his face, because they're about to take him away from me.

"Bill--call my mom, Frank, tell them--" Then some fucker bumps a cart full of equipment into the side of the stretcher, and Tim gasps in pain. I don't want to think of the glimpses I caught of his leg before they covered it up. The pressure dressing is soaking through with blood. I don't want to think about that either.

"Don't worry, Tim, I'll call them, and I'll be there when you get out of surgery, okay?"

I lean over again and kiss his forehead, right above his eye, practically the only visible area not bruised or bleeding. I don't give a fuck who saw me. I stroke his cheek softly, he squeezes my hand, and then they load him onto the elevator. As the door's closing, a nurse calls out, "He'll be on the fifth floor after surgery. Someone will be down to talk to you."

Then I wait. That was three and a half hours ago. Someone came down to talk to me and Bartlett a little while after they took him up. He's got multiple compound fractures of his femur, patella, tibia, basically every bone in his right leg. They're not sure they'll be able to save the leg--depends on what they find when they open him up. Even if they do save it, he may never walk again, for sure will never walk without a cane. He may need a knee replacement, if he keeps his leg, but only after enough bone has healed that they have something to graft it onto. He also has a punctured lung and internal bleeding, and may have other complications as well. But they think he'll probably live, thanks to the three units of blood the medics gave him on the helicopter. Probably.   
I'm ready to kick Bartlett in the head for letting this happen, but then I see his face. He comes up to me, thanks me for all my help, tells me they're going to keep Tim's involvement in the case quiet for now, for his protection. Then I finally let the ER folks examine me--just a couple cracked ribs, a few stitches. I've had much worse.   
Bartlett calls Mrs. Bayliss. And then I call information and get the number for Frank Pembleton in Baltimore, Maryland.

A man answers on the third ring.

"Hello." Fuck, the guy's hello is arrogant.

"Hello, is this Frank Pembleton?"

"Yes, who is this?"

"Detective Pembleton, my name is Bill Boisy--"

"I'm not a detective anymore. What's this about? I don't have time--"

I interrupt the arrogant son of a bitch.

"Listen, Pembleton, Tim wanted me to call, but if you fucking don't have time to hear that he's in surgery and may, if he's fucking lucky, walk with a cane for the rest of his life, then that's no skin off my back."

"Wait, wait--Tim? Tim Bayliss? What the hell happened to Tim?"

I take a deep breath, try to get some control. It doesn't work very well.

"Yeah, you want to know what happened to your friend, your partner, who you care so much about that you haven't spoken with him in two fucking years. Well listen up, Pembleton. Tim is in bad shape. He wasn't shot again, but they beat him up very badly, and his knee and leg are basically shattered and hanging on by a thread. So I know you don't do hospitals--never even visited him after he took a bullet for you--but maybe your wife might want to send a card to Good Samaritan Hospital in Phoenix, fifth floor. From what Tim's told me, she's paid him more attention than you have."

"Who did this? I can be out there on the next plane, I can help the investigation, what the fuck was he doing in Arizona?"

"Rest assured that the folks here have the situation well in hand, Frank. The people who did this are either dead or in federal custody, and no one here needs any help from the almighty Frank Pembleton."

With that, I slam the phone down and walk away. Fucking asshole; fucking arrogant, self-important, pig. Well, I did my part--I called him. I walk back to the chair I've been sitting in, sit back down. I want a cigarette, but I'm not leaving this chair. I don't want to be somewhere else whenever they decide to let me know how Tim is.

I sit there another half hour at least. I've got my head in my hands when I feel a touch on my shoulder. I look up, and a woman in colorful scrubs is standing there, looking at me with warm brown eyes.

"Mr. Boisy?"

I jump to my feet, wincing a little, and nod. "Call me Bill."

"All right, Bill. My name is Marilyn Ortiz, and I've been assigned as Agent Bayliss' primary nurse."

"Is he out of surgery? When can I see him? How is he?"

"He's in recovery now, Bill, but he's still unconscious, probably will be for a little while longer. The recovery nurses will beep me when he wakes up," she says, pointing to a cell phone at her waist.

"Why don't you come upstairs with me--you can wait in his room until he's awake. That will give us some time--I wanted to talk to you about what's going on."

"Upstairs? He's not going to be on this floor?"

"No, we'll be moving him up to a private room on the seventh floor. They're going to keep him under surveillance, you know, and the set-up on seven is really the best place for both him and the FBI who'll be watching him."

I nod again, follow her to the elevators. We ride up in silence. The doors open to a well-lit, spacious nurses station. We walk down a long, carpeted hallway, past several rooms and a several FBI agents. They all nod at me, and some of them reach out and shake my hand, thank me for what I did. It shocks the hell out of me.  
We stop at room 7010, which is at the end of the hallway. There's a separate, small nurses station just outside the room, complete with a computer and large flat screen monitor. There's a bank of windows that show the inside of the room clearly. There's a hospital bed, lots of discreet but sophisticated looking equipment. The bed's turned down, a cloth pad in the middle, and there's a large metal frame running over it like some sort of erector set.

We go inside, and I'm surprised by how large, open, and airy it is. There's a kitchenette off to the right, a sofa bed in the back of the room, underneath tinted windows with a view of stark red mountains, gleaming in the sun. The sofa bed's made up as well, and there are a couple comfortable chairs and a table next to it. Off to the left, between the hospital bed and the living area, there's a large bathroom, complete with a sizeable jacuzzi.

"This was originally designed as a birthing suite a few years ago, but then we built a new birthing center down the street. The rooms are so nice, the bosses decided to keep them as they were rather than go to the expense of redesigning the whole floor. This is also the pilot floor for a project called Planetree, which we're hoping to bring to the rest of the hospital next year."

"I didn't know they made hospital rooms like this."

She smiles, then shows me to the table and chairs. We sit down.

"Bill, I spoke briefly with Tim before he went into surgery--I introduced myself, basically, and told him just a little about Planetree. One of the key concepts of Planetree, one I very much believe in, is the concept of a care partner. I don't know how much they've told you about what the next few months are going to be like for Tim, but they're going to be very difficult. He'll be in traction for at least a month, possibly longer, and he'll have at least one more surgery--quite probably two or three. He's going to be in a great deal of pain, and he's going to be stuck in this hospital for a long time. He's going to be completely dependent, especially while he's in traction--he's going to need a lot of care and attention."

She's looking at me, waiting for me to respond, so I nod, a little puzzled.

"Care partners are people who commit to helping a patient heal in whatever way they can. They're usually a family member, a spouse, or a close friend. If a patient has no one nearby who is willing, we have volunteers. Everyone gets a care partner, even someone who's only admitted for overnight observation. But it's people like Tim who really need that extra help and support.

"Before Tim went to surgery, I asked him who he thought might be a good match, someone he thought might be willing to make that kind of commitment. He mentioned his mother, but said he'd be more comfortable with you. How would you feel about that?"

"Anything he needs, Marilyn, I'm there." Try to keep me away, then you'll have a problem.

"I'm glad to hear you say that, Bill, but I want to make a few things clear. This isn't going to be easy. It's going to be up to you to determine just how involved you want to be. Some care partners just make a commitment to visit once a day. Others, especially down on Pediatrics, stay with the patient practically 24 hours a day, learning from the nurses and the aides how to help care for their child. That's why the sofa bed is made up, in case you want to stay tonight, or any night, and meals are provided, if you want, or you can use the kitchen."

I can stay with him. They're not going to kick me out.

"Any commitment you want to make is good, but we're going to rely on you to keep it, so think carefully about how involved you want to be, okay? It's not a decision you need to make right now. Take the next couple days to get used to the routine here, to see what's involved, before you commit to anything more than just those regular visits."

I nod. I don't need to think about it. "Okay, I get that. Is there a phone I could borrow? I need to call some folks, let them know I'm not going to be home for awhile, take care of some business."

"You can use the one in the room--just dial 9 for an outside line, and use your calling card if it's long distance. I'm glad you're going to do this, Bill. I can tell Tim cares for you a great deal."

"Thanks, Marilyn. You'll let me know when I can see him?"

"Right away, Bill. It'll probably be another 20 minutes or so, so you'll have time to make your calls." She squeezes my shoulder and leaves the room.

I call Mary first. I tell her I'm going to be in Phoenix for at least a month, helping a friend, and I give her the phone number on the bedside phone. Then I get a chance to talk to Billie for a minute before she goes to bed.   
"Hey there lovebug, how are you? How was school today?"

"It was fine, Dad--how are you? Mom said you had a sick friend."

"That's right --my friend Tim. His leg is broken, and I'm going to stay here for awhile and help him out. Maybe your mom can bring you down for a couple days over your winter break, and you can meet him. I'd sure love to see you. I miss you, Billie."

"I miss you too, Dad--I had a great time with you last month."

"Me too, sweetie. I love you lots and lots, but I've got to go now--I've got to call Chelle and Kat before they bring Tim back from surgery. I'll call you tomorrow--sleep well, okay?"

"You too, Dad--I love you lots and lots too. Bye."

"Bye, Billie."

Mary gets back on the phone then. "Bill, what exactly is going on? You sound awful, and Billie's worried."

"It's complicated, Mary, and I can't really talk about it right now. I've got to call Chelle before they bring Tim back from surgery, and I haven't slept in days, and my ribs are killing me--"

"You were hurt too? Why didn't you tell me?"

"It's just a couple cracked ribs, Mary, and some bruises, a couple stitches. No big deal. Look, there's a lot I just can't tell you tonight, especially not over the phone, but I promise, the next time I see you, I'll explain everything."

"You're sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine, Mary, really. I'm just tired, and worried about Tim. But I've really got to call Chelle now, okay?"

"Okay. Take care, Bill."

"You too, Mary."

I dial Chelle and Kat's number quickly. I want to get these conversations over with so I can concentrate on Tim. Chelle picks up on the first ring.

"Billy, is that you?"

"Yeah, Chelle, it's me."

"Where the fuck are you? I've been trying to call you since yesterday afternoon--I've left a ton of messages, but you never called back. Mark hasn't heard from you--I even called Mary, but she was clueless, too. Kat and I have been worried sick--you promised you'd call us, Billy!"

"Sorry--I've had the cell phone off, never thought to check messages, and I can't turn it on again inside the hospital--"

"What the fuck's wrong? Why are you in the hospital?"

"I'm fine, Chelle, just a couple cracked ribs, but a friend of mine, he's in pretty bad shape, and I'm going to stay here in Phoenix for awhile to help him out."

"Bill. What happened to your friend--which friend? Is it Oxenburger? Did he freak out again? Is that why the full moon was important?"

"No, John's fine, it's not him. You remember last spring, when we helped out that runaway?"

"Vaguely."

"Tim, the guy from SafeTeens, he's the friend, and he got beat up, really beat up, he's not going to die, at least they don't think so, but his leg--shit, Chelle--"

"Where are you, Billy? What hospital?"

"Good Samaritan in Phoenix, seventh floor."

"Kat and I will be on the next plane. Where are you staying?"

"Chelle, really, I'm fine, there's no need for you to come flying out here to rescue me. I'm staying here with Tim, they've got a sofabed in the room."

"Fuck that. That's not buddies. You're hurt, and someone you obviously care about is in bad shape. You need someone there to support you. That's what buddies do."

"Fuck--Chelle--you're right. That's buddies. And it would be good to see you guys."

I give Chelle the phone and room numbers, tell her to make sure she and Kat bring ID with them, because Tim's under police protection. I tell her not to let anyone know I'm here. So far they've managed to keep my involvement in this whole thing quiet, but I know that won't last. Maybe I'll figure out how to handle it once they get here; right now I don't give a fuck about any of it. I can tell she's pissed at me for not telling her everything, but I think she understands.

After I hang up, I go stand over by the windows for a minute. The sun's starting to set--days getting shorter--and it hits me that this is the same sun I watched rise this morning in Church Canyon. I start to shake, have to sit down on the sofa bed. I'm still sitting there a minute later when Marilyn enters the room.

She comes over to me immediately, before I can even stand up, and sits down next to me. She puts her arm over my shoulder.

"He's on his way up. He'll be here in a few minutes. He's awake, and he's asking about you, wants to make sure you're all right. He made it through the surgery just wonderfully, and the orthopods are pretty optimistic about his leg--most of the major vessels and nerves are intact. They'll be up to talk to both of you later. Bill, when's the last time you had anything to eat or drink?"

"I don't know--I think they gave me some juice in the ER, and I've had some coffee." To tell the truth, I think the last real meal I had was lunch in Page two days ago.

"Okay, Bill. You sit here, and I'm going to get you some food and some juice. You have to remember to eat. Someone should have gotten you a tray--I'll have them send one up, but that will take awhile, so you're going to eat something now, all right?"

"But Tim's--"

"Tim won't mind. You're not going to do him much good if you pass out on him, right? You can sit by his bed and eat--here you go."

Before I know it, I'm sitting at the bedside table, eating crackers and an apple. There's a big glass of juice in front of me, and soon she brings over some soup she's heated up in the microwave. I start to eat mechanically, but it tastes good, and after two bites I'm shoving it down my throat as fast as I can. Then I hear voices in the hallway, and I drop the apple onto the table and rush out the door, wincing a little from moving too quickly.

Marilyn comes with me, guides me out of the path of the gurney, IV poles, oxygen tank, and a bunch of other pieces of equipment. There are two men pushing the gurney and at least four other people following with other equipment, not counting the two FBI agents who assume their post outside the door. Tim is propped up a little, pale and bruised, an oxygen mask on his face. The swelling's gone down a little around his eye. He reaches out to touch my hand as they wheel him by. I start to follow him into the room, but Marilyn holds me back.

"Give them a minute to set up the traction, okay? You can go in, but try to stay out of their way--it'll just be a few minutes, and then you can get as close as you want. I'll go over the equipment with you, too, so you'll know what's what."

I don't really hear anything after "you can go in," but I nod. Marilyn won't let me do anything stupid, anyway.   
The erector set around the bed looks even more like a construction site, or some sort of weird combination of torture device and exercise machine, because there are pins and circles of metal all over and through Tim's leg, and they're attaching various bits and pieces, elevating his leg, examining all the angles, pulleys, bars, and weights. They're being careful, I can tell, but even so, every time they move something even the slightest bit, Tim's eyes widen in pain.

Marilyn and some other nurses are plugging in the IV pumps, switching to a tube at his nose and an oxygen source on the wall, hooking him up to blood pressure cuffs and monitors. Besides the tube at his nose, there's a bag at the foot of the bed, filling up with blood-tinged urine. There's another tube leading from his chest to a box on the floor that's making bubbling noises; there's blood in the bottom of that box, too. Tim's in there, somewhere, face as pale as the pillow case, but I'm afraid to go to him now, scared I'll fuck something up.  
Finally all the extra people have left, and it's just me, Marilyn, and Tim, and I'm still standing off to the side, afraid to get any closer. Marilyn comes over and puts her arm around my shoulder again, brings me over to the bed. Tim grabs my hand, squeezes hard, and I see for the first time that he's as scared as I am, so I try to smile at him.

And then Marilyn does something magical. She starts at the head of the bed, where the oxygen is bubbling out of the wall, and she goes over every inch of tubing, every centimeter of Tim's body, explaining to both of us exactly what everything is, what it means, why it's important.

I find out that the box on the floor is for his chest tube, there to keep Tim's lung from collapsing again. She tells me which IV is his fluids, which is for something called TPN, because he won't be able to eat for a couple days, where the button is for him to push when he needs some more morphine from his PCA. She tells us that the foley catheter will hopefully come out by the day after tomorrow. She shows me his heart beating on the monitor, how to tell that he's getting enough oxygen in his blood. She tells us all about why he's in traction, and how he's on a special bed to prevent bedsores from being immobile for as long as he will be. She explains the funky white panty-hose on his left leg is to prevent blood clots, and that he's on a blood thinner for the same reason.  
And while she does this, she's examining him, listening to his heart and lungs and belly, checking his dressings for bleeding, checking the drains in his leg, the amount of fluid in his chest tube, the position of his pillows. She touches him as she examines him, showing me that it's okay to touch him, pretty much everywhere. She talks to us, telling us his lungs sound clear, his heart sounds good, his belly's not making any noises yet but that's what she expects right now. And I find myself reaching out to him, touching him where she's touched him, listening to her voice reassuring me, reassuring both of us, that yes, he's here, he's alive, he's going to get better. And his skin is warm, soft where it's not scabbed over. Tim puts his hand over mine, resting on his belly, and runs his thumb over my knuckles, like he needs the same reassurance I do. Don't worry, Tim. I'm not going anywhere.  
Finally, Marilyn finishes, writes some notes in the computer at the bedside, shows us where the call-light is. She tells me to eat, that she'll bring that tray in as soon as it comes up from the kitchen. She tells us she'll be right outside, that she'll be able to monitor his heart and his breathing from the computer outside. She squeezes Tim's hand, gives me a hug, and leaves us alone.

I pull a chair up close to the head of the bed and take a quick drink of juice, then take Tim's hand.   
"How are you feeling? And don't lie to me, Tim."

"Okay. They've got the morphine going in pretty well, so the pain's not too bad, but I'm pretty out of it--don't be offended if I fall asleep on you. I'm--I'm really glad to see you, Bill. Are you all right?"

"Just a couple cracked ribs and a few stitches. I'm a little sore, but they gave me a couple percocets in the ER. Once I take them, I think I'll be down for the count, too, but I wanted to wait, make sure you were okay."

"Marilyn told me you're going to stay--I really appreciate that, appreciate--Bill--you saved my life, and 'appreciate' just doesn't cover it."

Our eyes are locked together, and I'm horrified to realize that mine are filling with tears, and I'm shaking again. "Tim--I wasn't going to--I--" and I can't say any more, I'm shaking too hard, and I'm crying, sobbing, the first time I've cried since Joe's funeral, and I can't seem to stop.

Tim reaches out and puts his hand on the back of my neck, rubbing gently, and I hitch my chair closer and just fall onto his bandaged chest, letting the hospital gown soak up my tears as I fucking sob away, so relieved he's here with me, safe, alive, here. Tim wraps his arms around me, strokes my hair, tells me it's okay, Bill, it's okay.  
It takes quite awhile before I can slow down, sit up, and reach for the kleenex box next to the bed. I see that he's been crying, too.

"Sorry, buddy--didn't mean to lose it like that--I'm supposed to be helping you--"

"Bill, it's all right. After all, it's not as if I haven't done the same to you, last spring, remember?"

"Yeah, that's right, you got snot all over my furniture, I got snot all over your lovely pajamas. We're some pair, Mr. Secret Agent Man."

"We sure are, Mr. Hollywood Rock Star."

We sit there for awhile, Tim and I trading the kleenexes back and forth, getting our feelings back under some semblance of control.

"Tim, I'm sorry--I know it was stupid, going into town like that, but I was so scared the SWAT team wouldn't get there in time."

"Bill, if you hadn't gotten there when you did, it wouldn't have mattered when the SWAT team arrived. It would have been over. I've never been so relieved, and so pissed off, as I was when I heard your voice. What the fuck were you thinking? They would've killed you, too!"

"They didn't, Tim. They didn't kill me, and they didn't kill you, and the posse arrived in time, and you don't ever have to be Timothy Rawls again."

"Thank god--I was really starting to hate that prick." He smiles.

"Yeah, me too--I'm glad Tim Bayliss is back for good. I missed him. I missed him a lot."

"I missed you. There were so many nights I wished I'd never left that hotel room, that I'd stayed with you and never left."

"I don't know, Tim, you might end up pretty sick of me in the next couple months. I don't plan on leaving you alone again. That sofa over there--that's my bed. I'll pick up some clothes and stuff tomorrow, and get Chelle to send some more. No one's leaving you alone in a hospital again, not this time."

Tim looks at me searchingly. "You talked to Frank?"

"Yeah, I talked to Frank. Arrogant son of a bitch. He was ready to descend from heaven to tell the folks here how to find the assholes who hurt you. I told him that wasn't necessary."

"Bill, he's really not that bad, once you get to know him--he really does care, he just, the only way he can cope is to work the case."

"Well, there's no case to work, so if he really cares, he'd better get his ass down here and see how you are. If he does that, maybe I'll give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe."

"If that happens, I'll be surprised. I'm glad you're going to stay with me, Bill. I'm really glad you're here."

"Me too, Tim."

"Sarah and Ruthie--are they okay?"

"The girls I picked up? Yeah, Bartlett said they're safe and sound, no worries." Something occurs to me then, something Eisen said.

"Wait a minute, Tim--they're your wives?"

He looks at me for a second, puzzled, then chuckles, but he has to hold his chest when he does it, from the pain I guess.

"No need for jealousy, there, Bill," he teases, then adds more seriously, "According to Eisen, yes, they were my wives. But Ruthie and Sarah were just kids, and I wanted to protect them, and marrying them was the only way I knew how. But it didn't work--I couldn't protect Sarah from Joseph."

"That's the older one, right? What is she, about 13?"

"14. And Joseph Eisen raped her last week on her way home from a friend's house. That's when I wrote you that letter. I had to get them out before Joseph did the same thing to Ruth."

"Jesus."

He squeezes my hand again. "It's okay. She's safe now. Just--just don't be surprised if I talk in my sleep, okay?"

"Tim, if we both don't have nightmares after this I'd think there was something seriously wrong with us."

He nods. "I guess you're right."

There's a knock at the door then, and Marilyn brings in a tray of hospital food that's actually pretty good. Or maybe it's just because I'm completely ravenous. After a little while I slow down guiltily, because here I am eating in front of Tim, who can't even have fucking ice chips, and I look over at him. He's asleep.

I finish my food, and just sit there, watching Tim sleep, until I can't keep my eyes open. I go out to tell Marilyn I'm going to take a quick shower and get into that sofa bed, and she promises to wake me if Tim needs anything. She tells me to hold on a minute, then comes back with a set of scrubs, shampoo, soap, toothbrush, toothpaste, and some towels. I realize I'm still wearing the dirty, bloody jeans and shirt I put on what, 36 hours ago. I stink. I spend a long time in the shower, trying to wash every trace of this morning off my body, and I throw my clothes into a plastic bag and into the trash.

After I get out, she helps me wrap my chest and encourages me to take some pain medication. The scrubs are soft, just like pajamas. I swallow the percocets, watch Tim sleep for another couple minutes, kiss his forehead as softly as I can, and lay down on the sofa bed and sleep for something like 15 hours.

***

I don't have any nightmares, not really, thanks to the morphine, I think. I wake up a few times during the night--when a nurse comes to check on me, or when the pain wakes me. I remember having a PCA when I was at Shock Trauma, but I don't remember waking up like this, needing it, needing to push the button, my leg on fire, the taste of my own sweat on my lips. The pain is unbelievable.

Once the stuff hits my bloodstream, I can breathe again, can look over and see Bill sleeping over by the window. Marilyn comes in just before her shift ends, at 11, and I ask her to make sure no one wakes him up during the night. She tells me she will, but that he made her promise to wake him if I needed him. I tell her it's enough that he's there--let him sleep.

I barely notice the other people who come in and out during the night, changing my IVs, emptying my foley--I can't wait until they pull it. Some anesthesiology resident comes in at 8 am, ignores me, looks at the monitors, reads my chart, and orders the nurse to lower the dose on my PCA. She's not happy about it--I don't think she likes him--but she does it, and within a half hour I'm laying as still as I can, because even the motion of breathing is agonizing. I push the button every thirty seconds, even though I know there's a ten-minute lock-out on it, just in case it's time for another dose.

I'm just about to give into temptation and ask Lisa, the nurse, to wake Billy, when he sits up and looks at me, rumpled from sleep. I smile at him. He smiles back, then frowns and comes over to the bed.

"Hey, Tim--you don't look so great. What's wrong? Why didn't you wake me?"

"They've cut back my PCA, or maybe it's just that the last of the anesthetic has worn off. Hurts like a sonofabitch."

"Where's Marilyn? Who can get you something?"

"Marilyn works 3 to 11. The nurse here now is Lisa, and she's out at the nurse's station."

"I'll be right back." He's quiet, but he's totally pissed.

I hear raised voices outside the door--he's reading Lisa the riot act. She's trying to tell him about the anesthesiologist, I think--it's hard to tell, because he's not letting her talk. He finally realizes it's not her fault and starts demanding to talk to the anesthesiologist, telling her to call him so he can tell him just what the fuck he can do with his fucking medical degree. They walk down the hall, so I can't hear anymore, but five minutes later, Lisa comes back into the room and adjusts my dose back up, gives me an extra bolus, and apologizes.

"I didn't realize how much pain you were in, Agent Bayliss--I'm so sorry, I should have called the attending and gotten the order changed."

"Fuck yes, you should have, and if you ever let that motherfucker in this room again, you're not gonna like what's gonna happen," says Billy fiercely. "Fucking idiot. Now, if you'll excuse me, I gotta take a piss."

Then the bolus hits and I can breathe again. Lisa's looking at the bathroom door, then at me, and I can tell she has no idea how to react to what just happened. She looks like she's all of 18.

"Lisa, don't let Billy get to you--he's just worried about me."

"He was right, though, Agent Bayliss. I knew when Dr. Patel gave me the order that it wasn't right, but I didn't say anything. He wouldn't have listened, but I should have called the attending right then."

"Call me Tim, okay?"

"Okay." She smiles a little, and then Bill comes out of the bathroom.

"Listen, Lisa, I'm sorry I went off on you like that. I know it wasn't your fault. My mouth gets the best of me sometimes--don't take it personally, okay?"

"It's okay, Mr. Tallent. You were right. I won't let it happen again."

"Thanks, Lisa. And call me Bill."

He sure can be charming when he wants to be. Five minutes later she's eating out of his hand, and I'm just enjoying the show. Until I fall asleep, that is, which is five minutes after that. Just before I'm out for the count, I feel Bill's fingers on my cheek.

I wake up, who knows when, to a familiar voice saying my name. It's my mom, and she's crying. I open my eyes.

"Mom, it's okay."

"It's just so hard to see you here like this, in a hospital again, all these tubes and wires--what happened?"

"It's a long story. The important thing is, it's over, and I'm okay."

"But they said--your leg, Tim, what about your leg?"

"Mom, it'll be okay. I'll be laid up for awhile, yeah, and I'm not going to be chasing any more criminals down the street, but I'd think you'd be happy about that."

"There's no need to snap at me, Tim. I'm your mother, and I'm worried about you, that's all. Maybe we should move you back to Baltimore, to the hospital there, so I can help take care of you."

"No!" That comes out more forcefully than I intended, and she looks hurt. "Hey, hey, listen, Mom, I'll be fine here. My friend, Bill--did you meet him? He's going to help out, stay with me awhile."

"Yes, I met your friend. Tim, he looks like some sort of hooligan--how do you know him? If you're insisting on staying here, I suppose I could stay, too."

"Really, Mom, that's not necessary. Bill--he, he saved my life. He looks that way because he's a musician, a famous one, and that's the way rock stars look. He's my friend, and he's willing to help me, and quite frankly, I feel more comfortable with another man than I would with you here. I'm going to be in this bed for at least a month, and Bill's willing to do bedpan duty and help out with my leg. I think you probably would be a little uncomfortable doing that, and I know I don't want you doing it. I'm sorry, Mom, but that's the way it's going to be."

I can tell she doesn't know how to respond to that. She can't deny that she couldn't handle helping me with bodily functions--she couldn't even look at the urinal hanging from the bedrail in my room at Shock Trauma without turning six shades of red. But it offends her sense of self-importance to think that I don't need her here.

"Tim--I'm sorry, too. I'm glad your friend is willing to help you, and more grateful than I can say that he saved your life. I know I haven't always been the kind of mother you wanted or needed, and I'm sorry for that as well. I hope you know how much I love you, how proud I am of all you've accomplished, how much I want you to be safe and happy." There seems to be something hidden in her voice, and I wonder, not for the first time, what she really knows about what happened to me when I was a kid.

"Yeah, Mom, I know that. And I love you too, I really do. So I hope you understand that it's not about that--it's just that Bill, he can be here for me in a way you can't. And I think it's--good--that he can do that, that he wants to do that."

"You seem to care about him a lot. And he--he seems to care about you, too. He's a good friend?"

"A very good friend, Mom. And we do care about each other, very much." And that's as much as either of us feel comfortable talking about, so she nods, absently straightening up Bill's lunch tray on the bedside table, and gets ready to go.

"I came straight from the airport to make sure you were all right, but I think I'll go check in to the hotel now, get settled. I'll be back to see you later on tonight, all right?"

"All right, Mom. I love you."

"I love you too, son."

"Mom? Could you send Bill in, if he's out there?"

"Of course. I'll see you later."

And it may make me a bad son, but I feel a whole lot better when she walks out the door.

***

"Billy?" Chelle's voice is a welcome distraction. Virginia Bayliss, a formidable woman, came in this afternoon, shook my hand brusquely, walked into the room and shut the door behind her. I've been standing out here for the last few minutes trying to get up the guts to go in there myself. I was just minding my business, shooting the shit with Lisa while Tim was asleep, and all of a sudden I felt like a kid turned away from a movie he was too young to see. Chelle's voice feels like a rescue.

I turn around and am immediately enveloped in hugs from Chelle and Kat. They make lots of worried chick noises about my bruises and scrapes, and I have to admit I kind of enjoy the fuss they make over me. So we sit down, and I start to tell them a little of what I couldn't tell them before--who Tim really is, where he's been, how I got involved. I don't get very specific, and I can tell that Kat, in particular, is practically dying to make me give it up and spill the whole truth.

I'm saved from telling them anything more when Tim's mom comes back out of the room. She comes up to us, so I introduce her.

"Mrs. Bayliss, this is Chelle, and Kat--they're in a band with me, that is, we're in a band, I play guitar, we write songs--" Jesus. I sound like a fucking twelve year old.

"It's okay, Mr. Boisy. Tim told me what you're doing for him. I'm not sure I understand what all this is about, but I'm glad he has a friend he can rely on. I'll be here as long as I can, but I'm relieved you'll stay with him--it was hard on him when Frank never visited when he was in the hospital in Baltimore. Did you talk to Detective Pembleton?"

"Yeah, I called him yesterday, so he knows."

"Maybe he'll show up and visit this time. I hope he does--it would mean so much to Tim--he's always idolized Frank, God knows why."

"I've never met the man, Mrs. Bayliss, but based on how he let Tim down, even when Tim took a bullet for him, I'm not sorry if I never do." She gives me a measuring look, then nods.

"Call me Virginia, Mr. Boisy. May I call you Bill? I have a feeling we're going to be getting to know each other pretty well, so we may as well start off on the right foot."

"Bill is great, Virginia."

"Bill it is. Nice to meet you, Chelle, Kat. Tim's asking for you, Bill--I think he wants to make sure I didn't scare you off. Go on in, bring the girls in with you, it'll cheer him up. I came here straight from the airport, but now that I see he's in good hands, I'm going to go get settled at the hotel."

Tim seems pleased to see Chelle and Kat again, but I can see he's fading fast. The women and I head off to the couch to talk a little more, mostly about the fact that the label has finally agreed to let us fire Doug and hire a new bassist. The next time I look over at Tim, he's sleeping peacefully, and I'm blown away again by how wonderful it is to see him there and know he's safe.

When I turn back around, Kat and Chelle are watching me, identical mushy smiles on their faces. Yeah, I'm busted, no question. So I don't have any problem giving him a little kiss on the cheek when I wake him up to tell him we're going out to dinner, but I'll be back afterwards. One of the FBI agents follows the three of us out.  
Stop by the nurses station to see Marilyn, introduce her. Turns out her daughter, aged 12, is a big fan of Jenifur, so we promise to spend some time with her on Marilyn's next day off. I give her my cell phone number, make her promise to call if Tim so much as sneezes funny, and she recommends a decent restaurant nearby, tells the women to make sure I get enough to eat. I never had this much maternal attention when I was a kid. It's a little embarrassing how much I'm enjoying it.

Kat and Chelle regale me with tales of auditioning bass players during dinner, all of us laughing and smiling. It's the first time I've been this relaxed in at least seven months, and it feels really good. We talk some more about the new album, which songs we're going to put on it. Then, after they share the dessert they insisted I order, I get the question I've been waiting for all evening.

"Bill, not to pry or anything, but Chelle and I are more than a little curious about Tim. When did the two of you get so close?"

"And how close are you, Billy?" Chelle adds.

"Chelle, jesus--give me a chance to warm him up before you spring that on him!" Kat sputters.

"It's okay, guys, I don't mind talking about it, not with you. But I'm not really sure what to tell you. Tim--I haven't really spent that much time with him, for one thing. But yeah, to answer your question, Chelle, we're close. I feel--I don't know, from the moment I met him, that night in Vegas, I've felt a, a connection to him, a connection that seems to just keep getting stronger."

I pause, take a sip of coffee. "The thing is, this is all really new to me. I don't really know what's going to happen now. But he means a lot to me, and I'm going to do anything I can to help him through this, even if nothing else ever happens between us." As I'm saying this, I know it's true, but I can't pretend I don't hope for more, the kind of more that scares the shit out of me.

"Bill, I saw the way he looked at you. It was the same way you look at him. He's crazy about you, just like you're crazy about him, and it's about damn time you had someone in your life besides us and Billie!" Chelle leans over and gives me a hug.

"He's a lucky man, Bill. And if he hurts you the way Joe did, I'll kick his ass." I look at Kat, shocked. Then she adds, "Did you think we didn't know how much you loved that asshole? What he did to you, jesus, if he came back to life I think I'd shoot him myself."

"Wow, Kat, Chelle. Thanks, I think. Yeah, thanks. I'm really glad you came."

"We're buddies, Bill. That's what buddies do. And don't worry about anything. We'll come up with something to tell Mark and the label, tell 'em we have to keep looking for a bass player, and you're too banged up to play for awhile, from getting hurt helping out. We'll have the band's publicist put out the story that you were helping an agent with getting some runaways out and got caught in the crossfire, but we'll leave your relationship out of it. Too bad we can't keep it completely quiet, but too many people notice when Billy Tallent gets life-flighted somewhere. Anything you need, you call us." Chelle's nodding, Kat's talking, and they've each got one of my hands.

"Well, actually, as you can see by my outfit, I'm a little lacking in the wardrobe department." I'm still wearing the scrubs I slept in last night.

"See, I told you!" Kat gloats.

Chelle glares at her partner. "Bill, we stopped off at your house and picked up some things before we left. We'll bring them up with you when we drop you off."

My cell rings, and I freeze, then fumble to answer it. The FBI agent, watching from a nearby table, goes on high alert. What, does he think my cellphone's a bomb? I'm worried it's Marilyn with bad news, but then I hear Tim and remember to breathe.

"Hey, Bill, it's bedtime--you gonna come tuck me in?"

I laugh in relief. "You scared the shit out of me, Tim. I'll be there in just a bit, buddy."

"Good. I miss you." I can hear the exhaustion, and the emotion, in his voice.

"Back at you, Tim. Let me get these women moving and I'll be there in a few minutes."

"Good--I want to actually talk for a minute before I fall asleep this time, so get over here, okay?"

"On my way, Impatient Man."

Kat and Chelle managed to pay the check while I was on the phone, so after I give them a token hard time, we head back to their car, pick up my things. They insist on carrying my shit--"you've got broken ribs, Billy, don't get your panties in a twist!"--and I'm touched when I realize one of the bags they're carrying up is the case for my acoustic. Chelle notices what I'm looking at, teases me a little--"we figured we'd better leave the Strat--those patients have to sleep, you know!"

They come into the room with me and kiss first Tim, then me, good night, promising to come back tomorrow and put on a concert for the pediatric patients--"and you better be there, too, Billy!"

"They're pretty fond of you, aren't they?" Tim asks after they leave. I sit down next to him, hold his hand. It's nice. Fuck, I am such a putz.

"Yeah. I think I'm only starting to realize how much they care about me. Hey, did your mom come back?"

"Yeah, she left half an hour ago. You know, it's pretty easy to do that--care about you, I mean."

"I don't know about that, Tim--I've done some pretty fucked up things in my life."

"We all have, Bill. It's what makes us human. You're the one who told me that, remember?" He pauses a minute, brings my hand up to his lips, puts it back on the bed.

"Listen, Bill--I think we need to talk about this, about caring, you know? Because I care about you a great deal, very much, and I want you to know that. That night in your hotel--that was the best sex I've ever had in my life, and I want that again, as soon as I'm able, but I want more, too, and I need to know how you feel about that."  
My heart's pounding in my chest. I'm fucking terrified. But I force myself to meet his eyes and answer him as honestly as I can.

"Tim, fuck--I want that too, all of it. But I don't know if I'm even capable of it. I've never--the deepest relationship I've ever had in my life was with Joe, and it was fucked up. I loved him, I really did, but I also hated him, and he loved and hated me. It was all about anger, and power, and control, and sex too, but it wasn't like what you and I did, it was--that was--well, not to sound like a wimpy sensitive putz again, especially after I cried all over you already last night, but I guess that was making love. It was amazing, and it scared me shitless, Tim."

"I'm scared too, you know."

That may be true, but he has more balls than I ever will. I'm sitting there, shaking again, too terrified to admit, even to myself, how much I want this. I can't want this--I'll just fuck it up. I don't know how to do this.

"What did he do to you? I mean, I know what he did at the end, but I got the feeling before, in the hotel, that he did something else. What did Joe Dick do to you?"

I guess that's what made him such a good detective--that incredible perceptiveness of his, that way he can just cut right to the point of the whole damned thing. I take a deep breath. I'm not sure I can tell him. I've never told anyone except my lawyer and my therapist. No one else knows, except for John, who heard us fighting, and Mary, and the judge. No one else knows, but I think maybe I can tell Tim.

"Bill, look, if you can't talk about it, it's okay. I know that if and when you're ready, you'll tell me, and that's good enough--I didn't mean to push you. Sometimes that Murder Police in me takes over and I don't stop to realize I don't need to interrogate someone."

"No, I want to tell you. You need to know, I think. I want you to know." And it's true, I do. Because--because he cares about me, and he wants more than just sex, and so do I. And maybe with him, it's actually possible to have that. But the only way is if he knows everything.

"Right before we broke up as a band, back in '91, Joe and I--well, we'd always fooled around a bit, ever since we were teenagers, but usually it was just the two of us and a groupie, you know. I think we both wanted more, but neither one of us had any idea how to handle that. So in '90, '91, we started doing more, hand jobs mostly, sometimes I'd blow him, but for the first time without a groupie there for cover. Joe always had to be in control, though. He used to say, about the band, that he was number one, I was number two, Pipe was three and John was four, and he'd always add that one and two were basically equal, but it was bullshit and we both knew it. He had to be number one.

"Anyway, things went on like this, and we were close to actually signing with a major label, but Joe couldn't handle it. He couldn't handle what it would mean to actually sign with a label, have a real contract, not just fuck around in clubs and stay in band houses. And he started pushing me around when we were having sex, always talking about fucking my skinny little ass, and that just wasn't something I wanted, for him to have that over me along with everything else. We'd always had a rough relationship, lots of punches and slaps, but it started getting rougher. And he kept trying to get me agree to let him fuck me. Maybe if things had been different, more real, if he'd been able to really love me the way I wanted him to, it would have been different, but even though I was strung out on booze and coke and living in the Hard Core Logo Family, I knew enough to tell him no, I didn't want that. And he kept pushing, and pushing, and I kept telling him no, and the fucking around we did left more and more of a nasty fucking taste in my mouth.

"And then one night, after I'd already gotten him off and passed out, I woke up and he had me pinned down, and he did what he wanted, and I was too drunk to do anything about it."

"Jesus, Bill--I didn't realize--I guess I should have--"

"How could you have known, Tim? At the time, I barely knew what had happened myself, thought maybe it was a nightmare until I was sore the next day, bleeding when I went to the can. And then I blew up, I was ready to kill him, because if things had been different, maybe it would have been all right, but the way he did it just pissed me off."

I can't look at him, but I know he's there, watching me, and I can feel his hand on mine.

"And it wasn't until years, years later, after he blew his brains out, that I told anyone. John knew, see, he heard us fighting that day, and he told Mary, and she tried to use that as a reason I shouldn't get to see my daughter. But my lawyer, she listened when I told her the story, and she sat me down and asked me, didn't I realize I'd been raped? And I got so fucking pissed at her, yelled at her up and down, and she just sat there and let me yell, and when I'd yelled myself out, she told me what the legal definition of sexual assault was, and suggested a counselor. I didn't go at first, but later I did, and it took a long fucking time, but I finally started to believe it wasn't my fault."

"It wasn't, Billy."

I finally look at him, and the concern I see in his face pisses me off, because he doesn't seem to realize just how fucked up I am.

"Yeah, but don't you see, Tim, that's the extent of my relationship experience, that and Mary, and I think the fact that she preferred me to Joe was most of the attraction there--and maybe Joe's jealousy of her, maybe that was part of what Joe did, too. But that's all I know, and I honestly don't know if I'm capable of anything more. And you--you deserve more than a fuck-up like me."

"Bill... That's bullshit. I'm certainly no expert in the relationship department either, and I've fucked up some things pretty badly in my life. How I feel about you, how to be with you--hell, I'm feeling my way here, same as you. But the thing is, neither one of us is going to get any better at this if we don't even try, you know? So can we try? I want to, don't you?"

"Yeah, Tim. Yeah, I want to try."

I don't think either one of us know what else to say right now, so we sit there silently for a few minutes. I'm definitely feeling freaked out by the conversation, by the strength of the feelings I have for him. I get up, busy myself unpacking some of my stuff, opening up my guitar case so I can see Billie's picture, fluffing the pillows on the sofa bed.

And then I move back to the bed and take Tim's hand again. "What do we do now, Secret Agent Man?" I ask him softly.

"I'm not sure, Rock Star, but I think it's about damned time you kissed me."

And so I do, a slow, sweet kiss, trying to let him know what I can't speak--that I'm falling in love with him. I think he understands, think (hope) maybe he feels the same. For now, that's enough.

***

I've been here three weeks now, stuck in this bed, and awful as much of it is, I'm still amazed at the difference between this longer, much more physically painful hospitalization and the shorter one at Shock Trauma. From what they told me, the gunshot was more life-threatening than this, but the pain and the length of stay were much shorter. Even so, the week and a half I spent at Baltimore Shock Trauma (well, the week and a half I was aware of--I guess I was there a few days before that, days it's probably just as well I can't remember) was harder by far than the past three weeks have been.

A large part of it is the incredible nursing staff here, and a hospital environment that seems to understand and support them. Contrary to what you see on television, nurses, not physicians, are the stars of the show in the hospital, at least in my experience. I never knew that until I became a patient myself. At Shock Trauma, as at most hospitals, the nurses are over-worked, underpaid, and under-appreciated, even abused, by the physicians they work with. There's little of that in evidence up here on the seventh floor.

Most of the care, if you could call it that, I received in Maryland was given by aides who were even more poorly paid and over-worked than the nurses who supervised them. Some of them were wonderful people, kind and gentle, but others complained their way through rough and haphazard care, unaware or indifferent to how embarrassing it was for me to be bathed, have my sheets changed, my every bodily function measured.  
Here on seven, there are few aides, and those that are here are as dedicated and competent as the nurses; most of them are nursing students. I determine my daily routine, and the staff works closely with me and Billy, walking us through every procedure, every treatment. Bill helps me with my baths now, which is embarrassing in a completely different way, but much more comfortable than the alternative. They're teaching him, and he seems eager to learn, every aspect of their care for me; often the only times I need the nurses are for their assessments and my medications.

Bill's simply there for me, whenever or however I need him, and it amazes me every single day what he does for me. He's learned to clean around the pins in my legs with peroxide. He held my hand when they pulled the chest tube, something I remembered with dread from Shock Trauma that turned out to be completely tolerable with him there. He unselfconsciously cleans me up when the antibiotics I'm on give me the runs, and each night he just as calmly tucks me in and kisses me good night. He plays word games with me, plays his guitar and sings to me, wakes up each morning and smiles when he sees me. I love him more each day, but I haven't told him, not in words. I think he knows, though. I hope he knows.

I've had a lot of other visitors as well. Mom was here for a week, but neither one of us was very comfortable with each other. I have no idea what she really thinks about Bill, and I have no intention of ever asking her. I love her, know she loves me, but I think a part of me will never forgive her for not seeing, not protecting me, not ever acknowledging what happened under her nose throughout my childhood. I'm relieved she's gone home.   
Munch, Kay, Lewis, and Stivers came up the first week I was here, caught me up on the latest. Gharty's retired, and Kay replaced him as Lieutenant ("Gee would be proud, huh? 'Course I could never fill his shoes." "That's bullshit, Kay, you're doin' great, ain't she, Munchkin?" "That she is, Meldrick, that she is."). That's good news, really good news. Munch seems as happy as Munch ever is, working SVU in New York. Meldrick and Terri have finally consummated the flirtation they started way back in the Luther Mahoney days, and it seems to be working for them. I'm not sure I've ever seen Meldrick happy before--it's a good look for him.

There was some other news, not as good. Stan died, six months ago, while I was under cover. Gaffney's still around, ensconced in his captain's chair, fucking with everyone. Kellerman lost his PI business--too much drinking. And Renee Sheppard quit the force and went, of all things, off to medical school. Terri said she claimed she couldn't handle any more dead bodies, wanted to work on saving them instead of catching their killers.  
Before they left, Meldrick apologized for some of the things he'd said, the way he'd acted, when Gee was shot. He brought out a check for my share of the Waterfront, said he'd be happy to keep me on as a silent partner, but wanted to give me the option to let him buy me out. I took the check and shook his hand. He's the sole owner now, and he's thinking of retiring soon to manage the bar full-time. He wrangled a signed photo of Billy for the bar, made me promise to bring him there when I get back to Baltimore.

The next day, Julianna showed up, explaining she was in Phoenix for a coroner's conference. Bill was fascinated as she spun tales of pathologic ledgermain. While she was getting some coffee, Bill said, "You slept with her? Shit, Tim, she's a hell of a lot hotter than I am!" We were laughing pretty loudly when she came back in demanding to know what the joke was.

Brodie came by, too, a couple weeks ago. He brought a copy of the documentary; the three of us watched it together. Bill was fascinated again, started calling me Murder Police and Detective Bayliss, Homicide Hero, until I threatened to throw the bedpan at him. Brodie actually put the tape on pause when he got to the scene with me in my bathrobe, put it on pause and explained his flawed hero theory in excruciating detail, while I tried to bury myself under the covers in embarrassment.

Last week Zoe finally brought the girls by. It was so good to see them, healthy and happy, for the most part, at least. Ruthie was full of stories about the rescue of Georgia the cat, who apparently survived the siege of Church Canyon not only intact, but pregnant. She had four kittens, all girls. Sarah, thankfully, is not pregnant, and despite the fact that she's a little paler, a little thinner, she seems to be healing from the rape. I haven't seen anyone else from the town, but Eli phones frequently, and I've gotten a couple letters from Dan and Gordon, and cards from Susanna, Elizabeth, and little Cassie.

Bartlett comes by occasionally, updates us on the grand jury proceedings. We talked a little about my future--he told me there will always be a job for me with the feds, if I want it, even though it would have to be a desk job. I think we both know I'll never go back.

Bill's had his share of visitors, too. Chelle and Kat come out every weekend, jamming with Billy in the room. They've instituted weekly concerts in various parts of the hospital, calling it "Jenifur Unplugged." Watching the three of them together, writing songs, is just as fascinating to me as hearing about my life as a cop seems to be to Bill.

John Oxenburger also came to visit once, driving out from Texas. He's surprisingly articulate and together--Bill says he's a different person now, they've finally found the right combination of lithium and antipsychotics to manage his illness. He wants to write a book, memoirs of his time with Hard Core Logo, his original breakdown, the reunion, everything, but he wanted to get Bill's okay. I like John. There's a warmth in his eyes, and I can tell he genuinely cares for Bill.

And this past weekend, Mary brought her daughter, Billie. Bill glowed when he saw her, grinned that amazing grin of his and enveloped her in his arms. Mary stayed out of the room, going shopping each day while Billie stayed with her dad. The two of them seemed content to stay with me, although they did take one side trip to the desert so Billie could see the Saguaros up close.

When it was time to leave, Billie had hopped right up and gave me a hug and a kiss, and the pride and joy in Bill's eyes had been something to see.

"My dad's taking good care of you, isn't he?"

"The best, Billie, the best."

"Yeah, he's a good guy. A little weird, but a good guy."

"I think so too."

"I can tell, Tim. I'm glad he's got a friend like you. Are you going to go back to California with him?"

"Yeah, lovebug, he is," Bill interjected.

"I am?"

"If you know what's good for you, Detective."

I stared at him, Billie looking from one of us to the other and giggling, until she finally had to remind us that Mary was waiting for them in the lobby.

Bill remains the constant in my life. Now that I'm feeling better, not as helpless, not in as much pain, it's gotten difficult to deal with the incredible attraction between us. I'm erect each morning when he helps me bathe, and his hands will linger on my chest, on my groin, and I'll catch him gazing at my erection with longing, the same longing I feel for his touch. Then he'll catch himself with a jerk and meet my eyes with an apology.

We're both frustrated by the fact that we could be interrupted at any time, by anyone from a housekeeper to a physician. One day, only a few days after my catheter was removed, a nurse walked in, Chelle and Kat behind her, when I was relieving myself, not an easy thing to do discreetly when you're in traction. Chelle took one look at my horrified face, grabbed Kat and the nurse, and marched them out of the room. Then there's the fact that there are two FBI agents outside my door, 24 hours a day, alert for any suspicious noise or activity.

I finally made a few discreet comments to Marilyn the other night. She's working night shift now, and she often chats with me awhile when she comes in at 3 am to give me my pain meds. She noticed I wasn't sleeping well, and I decided to bite the bullet and let her know why. She wasn't shocked--just said she'd arrange for us to be alone the next time she worked, and warned me about muscle spasms, said she'd bring me a muscle relaxant.  
She's scheduled to work again tonight, and I've been irritable all day. It's not the first time I've had a bad day, and Bill's borne the brunt of them without complaint, but I feel worse than usual when I can't help but snap at him. To make matters worse, the day shift nurse, Lisa, is the same one that came in that day without knocking, so I don't feel comfortable saying anything to Bill about what's really going on with me.

***

I'm twiddling around on my acoustic, trying to tease him out of his funk, but that just seems to make Tim more annoyed. He's been pissy to everyone all day. Yeah, he's usually a little irritable after physical therapy, but there's something else going on today, and I wish he'd just get over it. Then I hear him mutter something under his breath.

"What was that, Murder Police?"

"I said I'm sick of being treated like an invalid, Bill. I'm not your fucking child, and I'm not in the mood to be jollied out of being pissed off, okay?"

And I guess I'm irritable, too, because I just blow up at him. "You think I'm not sick of this too, Tim? You think I enjoy seeing you in pain every day and not being able to do a fucking thing about it? How the fuck do you think I feel about the fact that we're under 24 hour surveillance because some fucking psycho out there may try to finish what Eisen started? You and I both know there are a couple folks who were out of town that night that have gone into hiding, and even though they've been able to keep your name out of the paper so far, it wouldn't be that hard to figure out where you are."

Tim opens his mouth to apologize, but I cut him off. "No, don't bother, Tim. It's been a rough couple days, we're both on edge, and I think I need to just get out of here for awhile, escape this place, take a walk, do something. I know that's not fair, because you can't escape, but right now I just have to do it or I'm gonna fucking explode, okay? I'll be back by dinner, I promise, and we'll talk then, but I just have to get the fuck out of here for awhile." And I grab my jacket and cigarettes and leave, followed by my ever-present FBI buddy.

I walk around Phoenix, smoking like a chimney, for I'm not sure how long. I don't know why I grabbed my jacket--it's November, sure, but it's also Phoenix, so I start sweating the minute I leave the air-conditioned lobby of the hospital. Not for the first time, I'm relieved that no one from the media seems to be paying much attention to the fact that Billy Tallent has been on vacation in Phoenix for awhile, and that his band mates have come out to see him every week. I've been recognized on the street a few times, but the FBI hasn't released any information about Tim or what really happened in Church Canyon, and the hospital staff know not to speak to anyone from the media.

Then I realize that it's November, mid-November. Last week was six years since Joe's death, and tomorrow's my 41st birthday. And I don't give a flying fuck about any of it, and that's fucking incredible.

I find a coffee shop, get some iced coffee, sit down and smoke another cigarette. I'm feeling a serious buzz from the nicotine--what with being in a hospital 24-7, I haven't smoked much lately. Haven't smoked at all in a week. Haven't missed it, not much, anyway. And that nasty Joe voice, telling me all the time what a cunt I am, mooning over Tim--haven't heard that much lately, either, and I've missed that even less.

Jesus. I start to laugh after a minute, then have to stop because I'm coughing from all the smoke. Yeah, I have it bad, I really do. Maybe I'm finally turning into a grown-up, or something. Or maybe I'm just in love, and for the first time with someone who's capable of loving me back.

It's been difficult for both of us lately. He's feeling so much better, and he's so fucking beautiful, and I want him, ache for him. I can at least go into the bathroom for to jack off in privacy, but he's always on display in that damned fishbowl of a room, can't even take a piss without some nurse coming in. And I can see how much he hates it, hates that he can't take care of himself, never has a moment of complete privacy. I see how much he wants me, just as badly as I want him, and how it tears him up inside that neither one of us can do a damned thing about it.

Fuck it. I get up, start walking back to the hospital. I don't give a shit anymore--I'm not going to wait another six weeks to show him how much I care. The whole fucking FBI can come into the room tonight if they want, but they're not going to stop me from giving us both what we've needed, what we've missed, ever since that night in Las Vegas eight months ago.

***

A few minutes after Bill leaves, Lisa knocks, then comes in. "Tim, is everything okay? Bill seemed pretty upset just now, and you don't look too happy either. Is there anything I can do?"

"No, Lisa, thanks. I think we're just both going a little stir crazy, and it's hard on Bill. He's really been there for me, but I think all this just got to him, got to both of us I guess, and he just needed to get away for a bit." I hope that's all it is.

"Okay, if you say so. But you let me know if you need anything, all right?"

"I will, Lisa, thanks, but I think right now I just want some privacy, some time to think, all right?"

"Sure, Tim. Just give me a buzz if you need anything; otherwise, I'll leave you alone--I know it sucks being stuck here, with us coming in and out all the time. I'll talk to you before I get off at 7, make sure you're okay, but I'll leave you alone until then, all right?"

I sigh with relief when she leaves. Someone must have said something to her--probably Bill, in no uncertain terms. She's a good nurse, caring and knowledgeable, but new to this floor, new to nursing, and still stuck in the routines they taught her in nursing school. Seems like she's learning some new ones now.

The itching in my leg lately is almost worse than the pain. I fight off the urge to scratch, barely. Maybe meditation will help. I take off my glasses, close my eyes, breathe. I'm asleep before I know it.

I wake up to the sound of the shower running. I grab my glasses and read the note stuck to the trapeze I use to maneuver around in bed.

_Came back &amp; you were asleep, and I stunk (hot outside today). Taking a shower. Sorry I yelled. -B._

I smile as I read it. For a punk, a rock star, Bill's awfully fastidious about his personal hygiene. His clothes are often faded, always wrinkled, sometimes torn, but he never wears the same outfit twice without washing it, and he brushes his teeth religiously after every meal. When Marilyn first gave him the dry shampoo they usually use for bed-bound patients, he snorted in disgust and worked out a method with regular shampoo that only occasionally soaks the entire bed.

I've never told him how much I love it when he washes my hair, although I think he can tell. Feeling those long fingers gently working on my scalp is incredibly relaxing--and incredibly sensual. I'm perfectly capable of washing it myself now, with a little help with set-up and rinsing, but we're both content for him to keep doing it every other morning. My hair's grown out a little now, and I love it when he runs his fingers through it absently while we're talking.

The shower stops, and he comes out a minute later. My breath catches in my throat as I look at him. Apparently he no longer needs his ribs wrapped, because he comes out, toweling his hair, wearing nothing but the grey sweatpants he wore that night in Las Vegas. The bruises are faded from his whipcord body, with just a few pink scars remaining from the ordeal in Church Canyon. He is incredibly beautiful.

He looks up, sees that I'm staring at him. He grins slowly, a grin full of sensual promise, and I gasp, almost moan, blood rushing to my groin, my cock filling quickly. He saunters over to the bed and casually tosses the towel on the chair, then sits down on the mattress next to me.

"You're looking a little peaked, there, Detective Bayliss--what's going on?" His voice is soft, deep, and husky.

"Uh, I--oh, fuck, Bill, do you know what you do to me?" I groan, reaching up to touch his face, his lips.

"That tent in your blankets is giving me a pretty good idea," he says, then leans in for a soft kiss. "And believe me, the feeling is entirely mutual. I just need to figure out how to do something about it in this damned fishbowl."  
There's a knock at the door, and I growl in frustration. Billy quickly shifts the bedside table over my torso to cover my erection, then stands close to the bed to hide his own.

"Yes, who is it?" I ask, managing to sound at least relatively civil, although I have to glare at Billy to keep him from laughing. The door opens and Marilyn steps in, dressed in street clothes and carrying a grocery bag that smells amazing.

"Hello Tim, Bill--hope I'm not interrupting anything here, but I thought we should celebrate. The docs are liking the way you're healing, Tim, and they want to do an x-ray tomorrow to evaluate whether they can remove some of the pins, and when they can take you off traction."

"Really? Fuck, Marilyn, that's great news!" Bill says.

"That's--that would be so great, when would I be able to get in a wheelchair and get outside?" I realize as I say it just how very much I want to leave this room.

"Hold on, Tim, don't get your hopes up too high yet. The first step is removing some of the pins, and maybe modifying the traction a little, but you'll probably be stuck in it for at least another week or two. Once you're out of traction, you'll be a little bit more mobile, but your leg will stay in external fixators for probably another month after that. Depending on what's going on by then, you may need another operation, maybe a knee replacement, but hopefully after the external fixation we'll be able to get you up in a wheelchair. This is going to take time, guys, and I know it's been really hard, but we're hopefully at least halfway through dealing with the traction."

"Thanks, Marilyn--you know, I don't know what we'd have done without you--you've been great, really, you and Bill; I can't tell you how much your care and concern for both of us means to me." I realize this is the first time I've told her how great she's been, and I resolve to tell her more often in the future.

"That goes for me, too, Marilyn--I wake up at night sometimes and hear you guys whispering, and it, well, it eases my mind that you're there for him too." I look at Bill, a little surprised--I didn't realize he ever heard us.

"Y'all are making me blush! No, seriously, and I really mean this, the two of you are amazing. I'm going to sound embarrassingly gushy here, but it's really beautiful to watch y'all together. It's an honor and a privilege to know you, and I'll never forget either one of you. I know things have been really hard for you, and you haven't even known each other that long, but I don't think most people ever have anything close to what you guys have. So when you have days like today--and yes, Lisa called me and told me she thought you had a fight--just try to remember that, okay?"

"Yeah, we will," I murmur, a little overwhelmed by this open, ringing endorsement of our relationship. Bill nods, holding my hand tightly in his.

"Okay. So, no more gushing, on to more practical matters. I've brought you two a home-cooked meal, even added a couple slices of pumpkin pie. I'm on at 7, and as you know, visiting hours end at 8. Enjoy your meal, and I'll be back around 7:30 to do my assessment, take vitals, and bring you a muscle relaxant and your pain meds, Tim. I've spoken with the agents here tonight, Steve and Chloe, and they're going to come in and make a quick sweep just after 8, and then they're under my orders not to disturb you the rest of the night, even if they hear strange noises. I'll be in at 3 as usual, Tim, to check on your pain, and I won't be paying any attention to anything or anyone else I find in the bed."

We both stare at her, speechless, as she pats the mattress. "Tim, you've got our extra large bed here, since you're so tall, with that nice air mattress. It's designed to hold up to 600 pounds. Even with the traction set up, it's plenty roomy, although of course you'll have to watch your head, Bill. And Bill, as I've told Tim, he may experience some muscle spasms. I'll be giving him the medication to try to prevent that, but if it happens, same as usual--no massage on that right leg, just help him with his breathing, and call me if you can't get it to stop."

"Just what exactly were the two of you talking about Monday night, Tim?" demands Bill, laughing. "I mean, Marilyn, not that I'm not grateful for your assistance here, but I have the feeling I've been set up. I've never been pimped by a nurse before!"

"I did set you up, Billy, both of you. Tim dropped a few hints, but I took it from there. I was ashamed it hadn't occurred to me earlier. It's not exactly something I can put on a nursing care plan, but this isn't the first time I've helped set something like this up, and it sure won't be the last. It's a little more complicated with 24 hour FBI surveillance, but no less important."

"Marilyn, you're amazing."

"Just doing my job, Tim. Now eat, you two, before it gets cold, okay?" And with that, Marilyn leaves, closing the door behind her.

***

We eat a stupendous amount of Marilyn's home cooking, laughing the whole time, and then Bill goes into the bathroom to clean up while I do the same. We have the routine down by now, with Bill rinsing and drying the stuff I used and putting it away. I can't help but notice that we both shaved.

Chelle calls, then Mark, Jenifur's manager. Bill calls Billie, also part of our routine, to wish her sweet dreams. Bartlett calls to talk about the videotape testimony I'll be giving in a few days, and gives Bill the date he'll appear before the grand jury. He also tells me that Zoe's been promoted and will be posted in Albuquerque.

Then we try to watch some tv. I try to read. Bill tries to work on a new song. Both of us are watching the clock, and I think we're both a little self-conscious when Marilyn comes in at 7:30 to do her assessment. As usual, her calm, professional attitude puts us back at ease, but the minute she leaves the room, Bill's at my side, stroking my hair, taking my glasses off, both of us practically quivering with tension until the switchboard operator comes on and announces the end of visiting hours. Bill's pacing around the room until Steve and Chloe come in, make their sweep, and leave.

As soon as they do, he goes over to the windows and makes sure the curtains are completely closed. Then he skins off his sweats and gets into the bed next to me, into my waiting arms. We lay there for a few minutes, just appreciating how wonderful it feels to hold each other without fear of interruption. I run my hands up and down Bill's spine, caressing, while he slowly unbuttons my shirt.

"Sure is good to have you here, Bill," I say, and then we kiss, a slow, sweet exploration of lips and teeth and tongues. Bill gently pulls my shirt off, then eases back next to me, one arm and one leg embracing me, the hard length of his erection at my hip.

"It sure is good to be here, Tim. I think it's where I belong." He kisses my neck, suckling gently. I run my hands down his back again, down to his ass, cupping, squeezing. He moans, rocking into me, and that alone almost brings me off, my hips bucking, but I manage to hold on, barely.

"Jesus, Bill, want you so much."

"Hold on, not yet, not yet." Bill pulls back slightly and captures my face in his hands, running his long, callused fingers over my cheekbones.

"God, Tim, you were so thin that night, it scared me, and then you just got thinner here, but it's so much better now." He kisses my cheeks, my chin, then strokes, nibbles, and licks his way down to my collarbone. I lean my head back and moan, pull him tightly to me.

"I've been waiting so long, Bill, you feel so good." Bill's skin is like silk, warm and soft, so sweet. We hold each other tightly, breathing hard, hearts pounding, and I can hardly tell where I end and he begins, where he ends and I begin.

Bill rises up and kneels on the mattress. He runs his hands from my chest down to my toes on my left side, massaging my leg and foot, kissing each toe. "Don't want you to get any muscle spasms, Tim," he tells me, smiling, and I'm overwhelmed by the love I feel for him. He kisses the toes on my right foot then, strokes my foot, then works his way up my right leg. He kisses every inch of skin he can reach, in between the pins and wires, oh so gently stroking and massaging. For weeks my right leg has been something I've tried to forget, a source of horrible pain, a source of worry. Bill's lips and fingers remind me that it is still a part of my body, still capable of feeling pleasure. It is an incredible gift he has given me, this piece of myself, and there are tears in my eyes as he works his way back up my chest.

"Tim, fuck, did I hurt you?" he asks, brushing away the tears, concern in his voice. I shake my head, unable to speak, pull him back for another kiss, deep and wild, trying to let him know what he's done for me, what he does to me. He meets my intensity with his own, tongue plunging into my mouth, erection rocking against my hip, and then he reaches down and those long fingers are around my weeping cock. He strokes down once, then up, then runs a callused thumb over the top, and that's all it takes for me to explode, muffling my grunts into his shoulder as the waves of pleasure go on and on. As he milks the last drops from me, moaning in his own arousal, I gasp out the words at last, unable to keep my feelings silent any longer.

"Love you, Bill, love you so much."

"God, Tim!" Bill groans, stiffens against me, then comes in shuddering bursts that splash warmly against my hip. He clutches me tightly, stifling his own cries against my neck, and I treasure each thrust, each noise, kissing the top of his head, holding him close, not knowing how he'll react to my declaration, fearing he'll pull away from me.   
But he's still holding me like his life depends on it, both of us breathing hard, both of us shaking with emotion and release. I loosen my grip a little, stroke his soft, spiky hair as our hearts slow, our breathing eases.

Gradually, the tension in Bill's arms begins to relax, the shaking subsides, and he speaks.

"You know, Secret Agent Man, all this time I was thinking that night in Vegas couldn't possibly have been as good as I remembered it. Nothing could have been that good. Well, fuck, Tim, I hereby stand corrected. Or lay corrected, or whatever. That was--I don't quite know what that was, but I think it nearly killed me."

"You and me both, Rock Star," I reply, relieved, kissing him.

"Any muscle spasms?"

I laugh. "Not any more, no, and any spasms I had were far from painful, believe me." I pause as he sits up, then add, "You know, I haven't felt this good in a long time--I think we're going to have to initiate a new regimen of regular physical therapy."

"Isn't that what care partners are for, Tim?" He's laughing too, and I relax a little. Whatever his reaction is, he's not going to leave.

I sit back up and help Bill clean us both up, lifting my hips for him as he changes the pad underneath me.

"Can't have any wet spots, Timmy, don't want to get any pressure sores, or Marilyn might not let us do this again. Let's get you scooted over a little--this may be an extra large hospital bed, but between you and that contraption, there's still not a lot of room left over. And if it's okay with you, I'm not planning on spending any more nights on that shitty sofabed."

"That's more than okay, Bill." I watch, bemused, as Bill strips the sofa bed of its pillows and blanket. He raises the bedrails, then pads each side, and I look at him curiously.

"I know you're hooked up there, Tim, but I don't want to turn over and fall out if I can help it."

Then he turns out the lights and somehow manages to climb back into the bed from the foot, carefully avoiding the weights that hang there. He pulls the sheet and blanket over us and curls himself back around me, legs and arms, his head tucked into my neck, his chin resting on my shoulder. "This okay, Tim?"

"You have no idea." I turn and kiss his hair. A companionable silence descends, broken only by our breathing. Then Bill speaks softly.

"Threw me for a minute, Tim."

"I didn't--"

Long fingers cover my lips. "Fuck, Tim--telling Billie I love her, that's easy--" he breaks off, starts again. "Like I told you before, I don't know how to do this, and admitting how much I love you--it scares the shit out of me. I could never tell Joe, unless it was some sort of joke, part of the games we never stopped playing with each other."

"It's all right, Bill. You don't have to say it, not out loud. You tell me every day, just not in words." That's nothing less than the truth, and realizing it warms me.

"That's not buddies, Tim. There is a difference when you say it, you and I both know that." Bill pauses. "Maybe if I could have said it to Joe, for real, and he said it to me, things might have been different."

He takes a deep breath and pulls himself up so that we're eye to eye.

"I do love you, Timothy Bayliss."

"I love you, William Boisy." He smiles sweetly and kisses my forehead.

"Good. Now you're not going to get up in a minute and tell me you have to leave on FBI business, are you?"

The only answer I can think of is to wrap my arms around him, kiss him softly, and promise that this time I'll be with him all night.

***

I wake to the murmur of Tim's and Marilyn's voices, clearer and louder than usual. Then I remember why that is, and I open my eyes to see Marilyn handing Tim his medication. She sees I'm awake and smiles at me.

"Hi, Bill."

"Uh, hi, Marilyn."

"I can see I'm going to have to tell housekeeping they don't have to keep making up that sofa bed."

"Is it all right? I mean, I know it's okay with you, but will the other nurses have a problem with it?" Tim's looking concerned here, so I butt in.

"I don't give a fuck what the other nurses think, Tim, I told you I'm not sleeping on that sofa any more."

Tim glares at me, and I glare right back. We're both pretty practiced at it, but Marilyn just laughs. "It's all right, guys--don't get fussy, okay? It's not as if we don't all know how you two feel about each other. So relax. Just be discreet--I'm not sure how well Cheryl could handle seeing any more of Bill than she already has, if you know what I mean."

"Now that's a pretty picture, Marilyn, thanks for sharing that."

"Don't worry, Marilyn, I'll make sure I'm the only one who gets to see Bill naked," Tim says, then adds, "and I happen to think it's a very pretty picture."

I stare at him a minute, then I laugh out loud. In a second, all three of us are laughing so hard that Steve sticks his head in and asks what was so funny, which only makes us laugh harder. He shakes his head and goes back out.

Marilyn leaves, and it's just the two of us. And I'm hard again.

Tim's breathing speeds up, and our lips meet; I reach down and find he's just as hard.

"I thought she'd never leave," he says, kissing me, and it takes my breath away. When my brain starts working again, I distract him with a tongue in his ear while I consider logistics. Things are a lot more complicated with the medieval torture device, but I think this may work.

I sit up on my knees, then nudge his left leg. "Move this over a little, and bend your knee up, okay?"

He does it, looking at me curiously. His right leg's still a problem, but with some maneuvering I manage to straddle his left, still on my knees, banging my head on the damned trapeze. That's all he needs to figure this out, and he grabs hold of it to pull himself up and into my arms. We're chest to chest now, and it's so good to have him straight in front of me, arms around my back, in the full embrace we haven't been able to achieve since that day by Wahweap Creek. He dives for my nipples, licking and sucking, and I moan, so damned good, Tim. I go for his ear again, the other one this time. I decide his neck has been sorely neglected, and so has his back, so I get to work massaging them, digging in my fingers and working the muscles. He had physical therapy today, so he's sore. He groans in pleasure, running his hands up and down my back and ass.

I sit back a little on his left thigh, careful of his bad leg, and he leans forward and smacks his head on the trapeze. "I hate this damned thing," he growls.

"I don't know, Tim," I say, "having you at my mercy has a certain appeal." And with that I latch on to his collarbone with my mouth, sucking and biting a little. His head arches back, long throat exposed, and even in the dark I can see the pulse beating there. I back up a little and push him back down into the bed so I can kiss every scar on his battered chest and belly, make sure each one gets the proper attention.

That's gotten his attention for sure, because one hand is in my hair and the other is at the back of my neck, urging me lower. I resist at first, because I have to explore his belly a little more, introduce my tongue to his navel. He's moaning now, especially when my chin brushes the top of his cock. I can't make myself wait any more, so I back up, kneeling between his legs, and take a good, long, lick.

I've seen his cock several times a day for a month now, had it in my hands a few times, too, but this is the first time I've seen it up close in all its glory. Just like the rest of him, it's beautiful. I pause a minute to admire the view, but Tim's hands are clutching at my neck, in my hair, so I take the plunge and swallow him whole.

He gasps--bet no one's ever done that for him--and bucks up into me. I concentrate on remembering every technique from the best blow jobs I've ever given or received, licking, sucking, swallowing, all around going to town. With his left leg bent like that I have access to that gorgeous ass, so while my mouth's busy with his cock, my hands are fondling his balls. He grabs one hand and brings it up to his mouth, sucking three fingers down, matching my rhythm. Perfect. He lets go reluctantly, and I slide one wet finger back to the puckered opening in his ass.

He bucks again as I circle it, then push my finger in, all the while sucking his dick down so far his hair tickles my nose. Hey, they don't call me Billy Tallent just for my guitar playing--I'm a multitasking kinda guy. He grunts then, and comes hard, spurting so much I almost can't swallow it all.

I sucked the Dick more times than I can count, but it never meant what this does. Because as soon as his breathing slows, he's reaching for me, kissing me, murmuring how much he loves me, how he can't wait until he can reciprocate what I've done. The only thing Joe ever reciprocated was a mind fuck.

Tim reaches down, and I feel his fingers close around me, but I'm thinking logistics again, and I break off the kiss and bring his hands up to my mouth.

"What exactly did you mean by reciprocate, Tim? Because that wasn't my hand on your dick just now, you know."

"What?" He hasn't a clue what I'm talking about.

I kiss him again, then motion him back down flat. "Scoot down a little, if you can, okay? Hold on, let me get this pillow out. Mmm, yeah, I think this is going to work."

His eyes widen as he realizes where I'm going, as I move up, straddling his chest, and lean over him. There's a little more awkward maneuvering for both of us, but eventually we're set. It's not the best position, but it'll do.

And Tim reciprocates. I keep popping out of his mouth, because the angle's all wrong, and I have to stay up on my knees a little, so he can breathe okay, and I keep banging into the wall, but it's sweeter than any deep-throated groupie could ever be, and I come so hard I practically fall off the bed.

Afterwards, I watch him sleeping, quiet and content in my arms. No, he's not going anywhere, not this time. Not if I have anything to say about it. And I'm not going anywhere either.


	4. Letting It All Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pembleton comes to visit.

I walk out of the elevator and towards the nurse's station, my palms sweating already. A young black woman looks up and asks if she can help me, and I explain that I'm here to visit Tim Bayliss. She directs me down the hall towards a man and a woman, obviously from the FBI, who introduce themselves as Special Agent Stuart and Special Agent Kennedy. Stuart frisks me, courteously but very thoroughly, while Kennedy examines my ID and asks me some questions. I'm comforted by their competence, and chat with them briefly in the short-hand of all police. I'm gratified and a little surprised by the obvious regard and admiration they have for Tim.

I'm also a little surprised to find myself here, in a hospital halfway across the country, visiting someone I haven't spoken to for over two years. I almost didn't get on the plane yesterday. I landed last night, and I could easily have come to the hospital this morning, but I waited. I was tired after the flight, the three hour time change. I'm still tired, but I'm here.

Mary called the hotel this morning, and again this afternoon. If she calls again and finds me still there, I don't want to hear what she'll say.

My identity confirmed to the agents' satisfaction, they direct me further down the hallway to a smaller nurse's station, this one staffed by a somewhat portly, grey-haired woman. I introduce myself again, and as the nurse, whose name is Cheryl, explains that Tim is sleeping but that I'm welcome to wait, I look up and realize the window I'm facing shows his hospital room.

"Have you met Mr. Boisy? He should be back soon."

"What? No, I haven't met him--just talked to him on the phone. He's the one who called me last month, told me what happened." I'm distracted by the still, pale form in the bed. I still don't know who exactly this Boisy is, despite some research; neither do I know who he is to my former partner. I don't understand why he's still here with Tim.

"Well, I'm sure they'll both be glad to see you. You were Tim's partner, isn't that right?"

"Yes, for six years." I'm relieved when she looks at her computer screen and excuses herself to go give report, whatever that is. I'm able to stand alone at the window now and examine the bed and its contents more closely.

Bayliss is pale, thinner than the last time I saw him, and very still, the only movement the gentle rise and fall of his chest. I run my hand over my scalp and watch him breathe. His leg, up in traction, looks like a crazed welder has attacked him. The very normality of the long, sock-covered foot at the end is incongruous. There's an IV hooked up to his forearm--why does he still need that?

I fight back a surge of panic that rises with the sudden memory of Tim seizing in the ER, and the measured movements of his chest when he was on the respirator after surgery, so still and lifeless. Remembering how helpless I always feel in hospitals.

He's just sleeping. The nurse would not have left otherwise. There is no respirator here, no cardiac monitor. He's wearing a perfectly normal flannel shirt, not a hospital gown. It's not the same--and this time it's not my fault. But I don't want to think about that. There's a lot I'd rather not think about--the fact that Tim took a bullet that was meant for me, the fact that this is the second time he's almost gotten himself killed.

The last time I spoke with Tim is something else I'd rather not remember. I still don't understand what he thought he was going to accomplish, confessing to me like that. Putting that on me. Asking me to arrest him. To absolve him. I watch him sleeping, thanking God he didn't do what he said he would and eat his gun.

I looked for him that night, after I watched him write Ryland's name in blue and walk out the door. When I told him I couldn't absolve him, couldn't arrest him, I made him promise not to do anything stupid. Told him that suicide was as wrong as murder. Told him I'd never forgive him if he did that, I would not wear dress blues and salute him, my partner. I took him in the box and yelled at him until he gave up, gave in, promised to walk away if I would give Gharty his badge.

I never understood how he could have thought I would absolve him. Much as he would like me to be one, I am not a priest. I don't believe in absolution any more, if I ever really did.

I'm not sure what I believe anymore. All that time, talking with Tim about right and wrong, good and evil--for most of those years, I truly believed what I was saying, but somewhere along the line things got a little blurry. Tim questioned me on everything, and even after I quit Homicide, I still heard his questions in my head. When he confessed to me, things got blurrier still. I'm still not sure if I did the right thing, refusing to turn him in, but at the same time I know with absolute certainty that to turn him in, to allow him to commit the slow suicide of the penitentiary or the quick suicide of eating his gun, that would have been a greater wrong. Because I could not believe that Tim Bayliss was truly capable of evil. This man, my partner, my friend, who would have traded his life for my own, is not evil.

I stand there for some time, still sweating, repeating to myself that he's just sleeping. Then I hear someone approaching and turn to find a lean, rangy man with spiked blond hair bearing down on me. He wears jeans and a t shirt, one so old that the logo is too obscured to be legible, and he carries a guitar case. He puts it down by the window and reaches out to shake my hand, an accusatory look in his bright blue eyes. I have the uncomfortable feeling that this man knows far more about me than I do about him.

"Frank Pembleton, right?" There's no mistaking the challenge in his voice.

"And you must be Bill Boisy." There's a challenge in mine as well, and he doesn't miss it. I'm here, and I'm going to make sure Tim is okay.

He nods, reluctantly acknowledging my right to be here. "Tim still asleep?" His fierce expression softens as he looks through the window.

"Yeah, sleeping like a log, so still--made me a little nervous." Why did I admit that?

Boisy smiles faintly, still watching Tim. "The first few days, I'd get up six times a night and check to make sure he was still breathing--pissed him off if I woke him up." He pauses, moves closer to the window, gesturing companionably for me to stand beside him. His body language conveys that this is his turf, not mine, but he's willing to tolerate me, for now. Tim is apparently his turf as well. I stay where I am, ignoring his gesture.

"I'm really glad you came, Frank. It'll mean a lot to him, your being here. It's--this has been really tough for him; he's in a lot of pain, pretty much all the time, thanks to that medieval torture device on his leg." His words are friendly, but I hear the anger behind them. We stand there a moment watching Tim sleep.

"When did you get in?"

"Last night."

"Visiting hours are all fucking day, Frank--what took you so long to get up here?"

"I was tired."

"I thought the almighty Pembleton didn't get tired."

"What? Look, Boisy, what the hell are you doing here, anyway? Who appointed you nursemaid?"

"I fail to see how that's any of your fucking business."

"Not my business? How is anything about Tim Bayliss, my partner, not my business?" The anger's out in the open now, on both our parts.

"Listen, I know Tim was your partner, but even if you ignore the fact that you haven't talked to him for years, there's the fact that I called you over a month ago to let you know about what happened, and you've only graced us with your presence now. So what brings you here, Frank? Why are you here now?"

I open my mouth to yell again, but I catch a glimpse of the window out of the corner of my eye and stop myself. Boisy catches me looking, and he turns, faces the window again. I realize that the expression on his face when he looks at Tim is not just concern. It's tenderness, maybe even love. Who is this man? What the hell is going on with him and Bayliss?

"You know, Boisy, I've never been able to abide hospitals. Working murders, standing over bodies, autopsies, never bothered me, but hospitals--can't abide the smell. Tim never understood that. Always pushed at me, always tried to drag me in to see whoever. Pissed me off then, coming from him, and it sure as hell pisses me off coming from you."

Boisy meets my eyes briefly, a measuring glance, then speaks. There's still a trace of hardness to his voice, but there's something else underneath. Maybe some of that tenderness I see in his face when he looks at Tim.

"That first night, when they brought him up from surgery, I was fucking terrified. I was cowering over in the corner, afraid to touch anything, you know? And just terrified, of how pale he was, how thin, all the bruises, the pain in his eyes, and all the fucking equipment that surrounded him.

"Marilyn--that's his primary nurse--was there, and she saw how scared I was, how scared he was, and she was fucking amazing. She grabbed me by the hand, brought me over, and went through every line, every tube, every piece of equipment in that room, and what it all meant. Showed me where to see his heart rate, his O2 sat, his chest tube, where to be careful of the weights, where I could touch him, which was everywhere, really. And that was only part of it--"

Boisy's voice breaks, and he has to stop for a moment until he can get it back under control.

"While she was telling us about the equipment, she started her assessment. She took me by the hand again, and put my hand next to hers on Tim's chest. She examined every inch of Tim, head to toe, and she guided me through that, too. She told us what she was doing, how he was doing, what she was looking for, and started showing me some of the kinds of care he was going to need. And when she'd finished, the room had a totally different feel. When they'd first brought him up, all I'd been able to see was all that fucking scary equipment. When she'd finished, all I saw was Tim."

Boisy glances at me to gauge my reaction. I remain silent, knowing he'll take that as an invitation for further speech. It works.

"And since then--jesus, Frank, I'm doing things for this man--I wouldn't do them for anyone else--" he breaks off again, then continues. I don't get this openness. He's obviously trying to provoke me again, but I keep quiet, sure he'll keep talking.

"The first thing Marilyn taught me was how to give him a bath. The two of us did it together at first, and it wasn't like I was seeing anything new, but I was bathing him from head to toe, changing his fucking sheets, wiping his ass for him, you know? I mean, someone must have done that for you, when you had your stroke, right? Tim would have done it for you in a heartbeat, no questions asked, but I guess he figured you'd die of embarrassment first."

There it is again. He's letting me know again just how much he's been there for Tim, that he--what? That he's Tim's lover? Letting me know how much Tim's been there for me, and how I've dropped the ball. This man has known Tim how long--a couple years? How the hell does he get off knowing so much? What business of his is my relationship with my partner?

"I thought we were both going to die of embarrassment the first time, but at the same time I could see how much it meant to him."

He's still talking about bathing Tim.

"He told me later about the nurses and aides he'd had at Shock Trauma, and how much he'd hated it to be bathed every morning by a stranger who didn't even talk to him while they did it, just went through the motions like he was on a fucking assembly line. So I did it, my face beet red, and every day it got a little easier for both of us."

Yes, this man is quite capable of caring for Tim. Much more capable than I, he wants me to know. Tim is his turf, not mine. Not anymore. But I know Tim well enough to wonder what secrets he has kept from Boisy, what I know that he doesn't. Has Tim told Boisy of his childhood? Maybe, although I doubt it. Has he told him about Adena Watson? Almost certainly. But I doubt very much Bill Boisy knows about Luke Ryland. Tim has always been able to keep his own secrets better than anyone else's.

"And now, he's so much stronger, he can do so much more, but he's still tied down by that fucking traction, and I do everything the nurses do except stuff like hanging IVs. I do pin care, helped with the dressing changes until those were done, still help him wipe his ass sometimes, hold his hand while he waits for his pain meds, and it kills me that I can't take any of his pain away, when he yells at everyone because he hasn't been out of that fucking bed in over a month. But he also tells me practically every day how much it means to him that I'm there. So sometimes I have to get out for awhile, breathe some real air, walk around outside, but I come back as quickly as I can, because he can't go with me, won't be able to even get into a wheelchair and leave the room for at least another week, and if I'm not there when he wakes up I feel like the worst kind of shit."

Yes, Tim's good at inspiring guilt in those who care for him. I know that more than anyone. More than Boisy. And some of the anger that's been building in me comes out.

"When I had the stroke, Tim was there every damn day, and I couldn't stand it. He smothered me--every time I tried to push him away, he'd come back for more. I couldn't talk right, couldn't even understand everything people said, felt like a retarded child, and I couldn't stand for him to see me that way." The fact is, I still saw him as that rookie with the redball, and I wasn't ready for him to see me as anything other than the person who taught him how to be a detective. And that nearly cost us our partnership and our friendship.

"That never mattered to Tim, Frank--he was your friend, your partner, and to him it didn't matter if you never worked with him again, he'd still love and respect you. You were a father figure to him, sure, and he still worships you a little bit, but he always knew you were human, even if you didn't want him to."

I'm not going to listen to any more of this armchair psychoanalysis from Tim's lover, and Boisy seems to realize he's gone far enough. He looks at me for a minute, then it's back to the window again.

"Okay, Frank, I'm going to go wake him up now. He's pretty worn out--he's been fighting a kidney infection this week, so he's back on IV antibiotics, and he had surgery again last week, and the combination of all of it has really fucked him over. Anyway, why don't you wait here, and I'll let him know he's got a visitor."

"Fine, fine, I'll wait."

Boisy nods at me. We've established some sort of truce, but I'm still not sure about this Billy Tallent person. I called in some favors before I left, got the skinny on one William Boisy, rock star, with a history of substance abuse, a juvie record, a bandmate who committed suicide, and an illegitimate daughter. A Canadian living in the United States. A drunk, apparently sober since the suicide of Joseph Mulgrew. Tim sure can pick them. This one seems to care about him, more than people like Emma Zoole and Julianna Cox ever did, but how much of that is because of Tim's injuries? Will Boisy be here for Tim later, or will he leave him as everyone else has? I haven't left him--not really, even though it may appear that I have. I always come back.

Boisy's obviously taken my place as Tim's confidante and friend, and he appears warm, friendly, and approachable, even soft-spoken, when he's not yelling at me, but I find myself wishing for the two-way mirror and recording system of the Box as he walks into the room. I don't trust him. He wakes Tim by stroking his cheek, speaking his name. I can't hear anything else; the door has closed behind him. Boisy is not the only one who wishes to protect Tim, and I'd be a lot more comfortable if I could hear their conversation.

Perhaps there's no need. As Tim awakens, he reaches for Boisy's hand, still lingering on his cheek, and brings it to his lips. The love between them is obvious--Boisy's sharp features are transformed by a brilliant smile, one that finds its match on Tim's face. I've never seen Tim look at anyone that way.

Then Boisy leans forward and kisses Tim sweetly, no longer aware of anyone but the man in the hospital bed in front of him. Boisy asks something, Tim answers, and then Boisy takes a pair of glasses from the bedside table and hands them to Tim, saying something and pointing toward the window. Tim shakes his head, looks up in disbelief, and meets my eyes through the glass. Another brilliant smile covers Boisy's face as he gestures me to come in, but the smile has left Tim's. No, Tim doesn't look happy to see me. Perhaps I bring back memories he'd rather forget.

Perhaps I'm not the only one with unanswered questions about what happened the last time we spoke. No, Tim hasn't told Boisy about Ryland. I'm still the only one who knows.

****

I can't believe Frank's really here, but there he is, coming through the door, larger than life. Only maybe it's smaller than life. He looks tentative, nervous, maybe even a little scared--imagine that, Frank Pembleton scared. Of me?

I should be glad to see him--he's my friend, my partner, someone I haven't seen in years--but for some reason, when I look into those dark eyes, all I feel is dread.

He comes in the room, shakes my hand.

"Tim, good to see you, how are you doing?"

"Fine, Frank--good to see you too. How are Mary and the kids?"

We continue making small talk for a few awkward minutes, Bill watching us, smiling a little. He's happy for me, that Frank has finally graced us with his presence; he's pretending to be unaware of the tension in the room. Frank and I are all too aware of it. He's the first to do something about it.

"Mr. Boisy--Bill--I hate to be rude, but Tim and I have some catching up to do. Would you mind giving us a little privacy?"

Bill looks at me, surprised. None of my other friends from the force have asked him to leave, and I know he enjoys hearing their stories of life with the murder police. I also know the fierce protectiveness he sometimes displays toward me, the same protectiveness that saved my life that night in Church Canyon.

"It's okay, Bill--I think it would be good for Frank and me to talk awhile, just the two of us, I mean. Uh, Frank doesn't like anyone hearing about his business, he's a private kind of guy, you know?"

I look into his eyes, pleading silently for him to understand. He looks back, nods. He doesn't understand, not really, but he trusts me, trusts that I need this for some reason.

"Sure, no problem. I'll just go take a walk, maybe take my acoustic down to that kid on peds, give him a little pep talk. I'll be back before dinner. You want me to pick anything up?"

"Yeah, that would be great--maybe get us a couple pizzas, and Frank can join us for dinner. You can do that, can't you, Frank?"

"What? Fine, fine, I can do that. Got no plans other than visiting you, Bayliss."

"Good--there'll be someone else who likes meat on his pizza."

Bill's picked up on the vibe, and he's puzzled, but he gives me a quick peck and heads out the door. Yeah, he trusts me. And suddenly I realize why I'm not thrilled to have Frank here. Bill trusts me, but he doesn't know me, not really. Not the way Frank does. Bill doesn't know what I'm capable of, believes I am a good person. Frank knows I'm not.

Frank knows all about what I'm capable of.

And typical Frank, with that keen mind of his, to just get right to business. Frank, he doesn't pull his punches. As soon as Bill's gone, the small talk ends.

"So, Tim--how long have you been shacking up with the rock star?" His voice is sharp, with the smallest tinge of anger.

"Not that it's any of your damned business, Frank, but I met Bill just before I went undercover last spring. Our--our relationship has gotten, uh, deeper since he saved my life last month."

"Oh, yes, since he saved your life, since he was there for you, when I wasn't. Mind you, I'm glad you're okay--more than glad--but I have to wonder about a relationship built on--what? Another one night stand, this time before you left on a romantic undercover assignment?"

I hate it when he's that perceptive. How the fuck did he figure that one out? "Dammit, Frank, I know you don't think I'm capable of a real relationship, and I sure as hell know you're not comfortable with my sexual preferences, but there's no reason for you to insult me or the man I happen to be in love with." My voice comes out cold, but I can't help blushing. And he notices that, too.

"Oho, you're in love with him now? Well that's good, that's rich. No, I'm happy for you, I really am. But tell me one thing--how well do you know this man that you claim to love? And more to the point, Tim--just how well does he know you?"

"That's it, isn't it? He can't possibly know me as well as you do, can he?" I am so sick of that self-satisfied arrogance.

"No, I don't believe he can. And I don't want to have to pick up the pieces after this doesn't work out. Not again."

"Not again?! Since when have you ever picked up the pieces for me? Tell me, Frank, when?"

"Try after Emma Zoole, after Juliana Cox, after you went out to dinner with that restaurant guy, after you couldn't make up your mind who or what the hell you thought you wanted. Since always, Tim."

"That is bullshit, Frank, and you know it! You were never there for me, not when I really needed you. Not the way I was there for you. I just wasn't enough of a priority, I guess. But Bill has been there for me, every step of the way."

"There it is, isn't it? Right on schedule. You were there for me after the stroke, Bill's been there for you with your leg, but I wasn't there for you when you got shot.

"Well, you're right, Tim. I wasn't there for you. I let you down. I didn't come to the hospital every day, cluck over you, baby you. I had enough respect for you to let you alone, like I wish you had let me alone after the stroke."

"You wish I'd left you alone? That's ridiculous--you were my partner, my friend--I wasn't going to leave you alone!"

"No, of course you wouldn't. Because you never paid any attention to what I needed, just what you thought you'd want."

"That's not fair, Frank! It didn't matter what I did after the stroke, you hated it. If I'd left you alone, you would have hated that, too, just like I hated it when you did your disappearing act."

"Well, we'll never know the answer to that, will we? Because you're incapable of leaving me alone--you're always at me about something. Bugging me to take my medicine, to get me to invite you to my house, bringing presents for my kids--you don't know how to leave me alone. You don't know how to leave anything alone, Tim--you obsess about everything!"

"My wanting you to come visit me when I was in the hospital, when I was laid up at home for six fucking months, that's obsessing? That's bullshit, Frank, and you know it! Why can't you just admit you were scared, or feeling guilty, or whatever the real reason was?"

"You think I was feeling guilty? Why, because you took a bullet for me?"

"Yes, Frank. Because you couldn't take the shot. You had time, just like when Junior Bunk shot up the squad room, but you couldn't take the shot, and I couldn't let you get yourself killed. So you felt guilty. Are you going to admit it?"

"Okay, Tim, fine. You want me to admit it? I admit it. If you'd been standing there instead of me, you would have taken the shot, the guy would have gone down, and all would be well--is that what you want me to say? Because   
we both know you're certainly capable of shooting someone!"

We're both speechless for a moment. I think he's just as shocked to have come out with that as I am to hear him say it.

"I may have felt guilty, Tim, but I'm not the only one. No matter what you said that night, about feeling okay in your heart, you wouldn't have told me, wouldn't have asked me what you asked me, if you weren't feeling guilty for what you did."

I stare at him for a minute. I don't want to admit it, but he's right, of course. He's always fucking right, especially when I don't want him to be.

"Do I feel guilty for shooting Luke Ryland? Is that what you're asking? Is that why you couldn't absolve me, Frank? Do you feel guilty about that, too?"

"Maybe I do, Tim, maybe I do." He looks at me a minute, then asks the question.

"You haven't told him, have you?"

There's no use pretending I don't know what he's talking about.

"No."

"Didn't think so."

"Why should I, Frank, huh? Why should I tell him? That's the past--it's over, I've dealt with it, dealt with my feelings. I don't need absolution anymore--being in that godforsaken town for 7 months was absolution enough. So why should I tell Bill about Luke Ryland? If I tell him--"

"You haven't dealt with it, Tim! You're in denial, same as you always are. You're afraid to tell him, afraid he'll leave you. But Tim, if you don't tell him, it's gonna tear you up, and you'll lose him anyway. Just like not telling anyone about Ryland was tearing you up before. I know what you went through undercover was horrible, but I also know you, Tim. I know you. If you really love him, you gotta tell him the truth."

"I told you the truth, and I lost you. Every time I told you something, I lost you, every single time." It's true--telling people my secrets has always driven them away. Bill stayed when I told him about Uncle George, and that totally amazed me. I can't tell him about Ryland--he'll leave, just like everyone else.

"Is that what you think? That you lost me?" Frank's voice is softer now, calmer.

"What else was I supposed to think, huh, Frank? Okay, maybe you felt guilty after I got shot, but that's not the first time you pulled away from me, and it damned sure wasn't the last. You left the force without even talking to me."

"Okay, Tim, first of all, you pulled away from me after the stroke. When you told me about your uncle, I tried to be there for you, but you didn't want anything to do with me. So don't put that on me."

I open my mouth to yell at him again, both of us staring hard at each other, eye to eye. But suddenly it's just not worth it. It hurts too much, and I'm too damned tired.

"We sure are a pair, aren't we? First time we see each other in two years, and it doesn't take five minutes before we're yelling at each other. I don't want to do that anymore, Frank. How can we stop doing that?"

"I don't know. I wish I did, I really do." He sighs, sits down next to me, takes my hand.

"Tim, what do you want me to say? Do you want me to apologize? Fine, I apologize. What do you need me to apologize for?"

"I don't know anymore."

"I'll tell you one thing. I'm not sorry I didn't turn you in. What you did was wrong, but you're a good man. I don't know how I can believe that, but I do."

"I don't know about that. It was wrong for me to shoot Ryland, and I don't know how you can think of me as a good man after I did it. It was wrong because it wasn't just a simple execution of a criminal. I hated him, hated what he did, what he planned to do again. Hated what he did to me, not just what he did to those women. I was lying when I said my heart was okay that night. Because part of me killing him, part of it was revenge, against him, against my uncle, my father, anyone who ever hurt me. And when I shot him, for just a second, I felt great."

"I know, Tim."

"You know?" How can Frank, who could never shoot anyone, know how I felt?

"I felt the same way when they got the guy who shot you. Felt it when Kellerman kicked him--wanted to kick him myself. Wanted to kick Kellerman later that night, after Gee let him go."

We look at each other again. He pauses, rubs the top of his head, sticks his tongue into his cheek. Classic Frank. Persistent, challenging, exhausting.

"Listen, if it's all right with you, can we lay off this heavy philosophical shit for awhile? I'm out of practice doing the arguing with the Jesuit thing, and I'm kind of tired, too." I'm smiling at him as I say it, but in truth I am beat. This stupid infection has really taken it out of me the last couple days.

He looks at me closely, leaning in, taking careful notice of every detail of my face. All the power of Frank Pembleton's gaze is focused on me. It's unnerving, even when you've been subject to it countless times before.

"Shit, Tim, why didn't you say anything? You look terrible! Boisy said you had a, a, what, a kidney infection? Aren't these doctors taking care of you? And the nurses--why are they hanging out out there, instead of taking care of you? I know Boisy's helping you out, but aren't they supposed to run the show? What the hell's wrong with them? Who's the chief of staff here--who can I talk to to get you some better care?"

And I just start to laugh. I shouldn't, really, he's just doing his thing, showing me he cares, but the idea of him yelling at Cheryl for letting me get an infection is just hilarious for some reason. And that's when I think we're going to be all right. Still have some stuff to work out, no question, but I think we'll be okay.

It takes me awhile, but I finally convince Frank there's no one he needs to go interrogate, intimidate or otherwise bully into taking better care of me. After that, we relax a little, just talking. I hear about Frankie's first words, how Olivia likes kindergarten, and teaching at Loyola. I tell Frank a little about Billy, a little about Church Canyon, and quite a bit about the kids there--Eli, Sarah, Ruth, and the rest.

As Bill returns with the pizza, Frank is regaling me with tales of a spectacularly underwhelming student from the current term. I can see the relief in Bill's eyes--he's been worried, wondering what was wrong. I know that Frank is right--I have to tell him about Ryland--but not tonight. Please, not tonight.

****

All is not quite right in Timland, but he and Frank seem to have arrived at a comfortable cease-fire. None of us acknowledges the remaining undercurrent of tension, choosing instead to enjoy our meal together. The night nurse is working a twelve hour shift tonight, so she comes in and does her assessment at 7, says she'll be back at midnight to hang the next antibiotic.

Frank and I move over to the table to talk while she's with Tim. The discussion centers on Tim's recovery. For the first time, I see real evidence of how much Frank does care about Tim--the full force of his skills as an interrogator are focused on me until he understands everything about Tim's condition and future.

"What's going on with this kidney infection? How the hell did that happen?"

"He had surgery last week to put a plate in and remove a couple pins. He had to have a catheter again, and sometimes that can cause an infection."

"When is he gonna get out of that damned traction?"

"Hopefully in another week. They'll be doing x rays to see."

"What happens then?"

"He'll be in what they call external fixators for another few weeks, maybe another month. After that, he might need one more surgery--a knee replacement."

And so on. Finally we both realize we've been totally ignoring Tim, talking about him like he's not even there, and look over at the bed.

He's fallen into an exhausted sleep, and I feel like shit for not even noticing how tired he was. I go to the bed, rest my hand on his forehead. Doesn't feel like he has a fever.

"Shit, Bill--he's gonna be okay, right?"

"Yeah, Frank, he is. It's not going to be easy; it's going to take a long, long time, but from what everyone tells me, he's going to be okay. Won't ever run after a perp again, but that's fine with me. I'd rather have him safe, you know?"

"Yeah."

We watch him sleep for a minute, and then Frank gets ready to go. He stops at the door and turns back to me. I can tell he's got something to say, but isn't sure whether to say it.

"What's on your mind, Frank?"

"You love him?"

I can't stop the goofy smile that covers my face. "I do. Sounds fucking corny as hell, especially coming from someone like me, but I really do, with all my heart."

"Good. He needs--look, I've known Tim for a lot of years now. Partnership between cops, that's almost like a marriage--most days I spent a hell of a lot more time with him than I did with my wife. He's a complicated man, Bill. I'm sure you know that already, but maybe it doesn't hurt to hear it again. I know he loves you--haven't ever seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you; it's pretty damned amazing--"

He's running his hand over the top of his skull, looking nervous, like he was when I first saw him this afternoon.

"Frank, what exactly are you trying to say?"

"Just that there might be some things you don't know about, stuff Tim hasn't told you yet, and I hope that when and if he does, it won't change the way you feel about him."

"Listen, I appreciate what you're trying to say, but there is nothing that Tim could say to me that would change the way I feel about him." We're meeting each other's eyes, stare for stare, the way we did earlier.

"I hope that's true. Because I don't want to see what it would do to him if he lost you."

"I'll tell you this one more time, Frank. I love him. Nothing could change that."

He nods at that, shakes my hand, and tells me he'll be by again tomorrow evening. And I'm left standing there wondering just what the fuck is going on.

Fuck. None of this mystery is going to get solved tonight, because I'll be damned if I'll wake Tim up, not when he's this wiped out. So I get ready for bed, turn off the lights, and get in next to him. He stirs just a little, murmurs my name, and I kiss his cheek, stroke his hair, tell him to go back to sleep.

I'm still awake an hour later, watching him sleep, when he starts moaning, fists clutching at the blankets, in the first nightmare he's had since I started sharing his bed two weeks ago. I stroke his forehead, call his name, and he wakes up with a start, face covered with sweat, panic in his eyes.

"It's okay, Tim, you're safe, I'm here."

"What? Shit. Okay, I'm all right. I'm all right, Bill."

"You're okay. I'm here."

He sighs, and I put my arms around him, rest my head on his chest, listening to his heart pounding. Whatever he dreamed about this time, it was a fucking doozy. And suddenly I have to know.

"What was it, Tim? What did you dream about?"

He tenses up. He's scared to tell me. Jesus, Frank was right--there's something he hasn't told me, something big. I turn on the lights, low as they'll go, get up and get us some water, give both of us a minute to regroup. I sit back down next to him. He's not meeting my eyes. Shit, what the fuck is going on?

"Tim, what's going on? Tell me. Please."

"I don't know if I can. It's--I've done things, Bill. I told you that once before, and you said it didn't matter, but I think it does."

A chill runs through me when I hear those words. What could he possibly have done that would cause him to speak in such a quiet, desperate voice?

"What have you done, Tim? Tell me."

He turns then, finally meets my eyes, and I see the disgust and self-hatred in his face, and it fucking tears me apart. It looks like Joe's face when we left Bucky's farm, for the one second he let his feelings show. I reach for his hand, but he pulls it away.

"No, don't, Bill. It's hard enough to talk about this--just don't touch me right now, okay? Or I'll never be able to tell you."

Jesus. "Okay, whatever you need, just tell me. Is it about your uncle? Is it something with Pembleton? Did he do something to you?"

He laughs at that, a short, dark chuckle that's totally joyless.

"No, that's just it, really. Frank didn't do anything, even when I asked him to. Couldn't absolve me, couldn't arrest me."

"What the fuck would he want to arrest you for?" This is making less fucking sense by the minute.

"That's what you do when someone confesses. And that's what I did to Frank, what he's never forgiven me for. I laid it on him, confessed to him, and he solved the case, didn't he, but he never told anyone."

"Tim. What did you do?" He's scaring me now.

"I killed someone, Bill."

"Is that it? But I already know about that homeless guy, Tim, you told me about that a long time ago, that--" I'm so relieved that I almost don't notice, but he's sitting so still, so stiff, with the slightest tremor running through his body, shaking his head slowly.

"I'm not talking about Larry Moss." He looks at me again, and just for a second I see terror in his eyes. Frank was right--whatever this is, it's enough that Tim's scared he'll lose me if he tells me.

I ask him again, as quietly, as soothingly as I can, even though I want to take him by the shoulders and shake him.

"What did you do, Tim? Please, tell me."

"I killed Luke Ryland. I went to his house, and I shot him. Executed him. Put a bullet in the back of his head and walked away."

Luke Ryland. The name's familiar, I know Tim's mentioned him before, but my mind is blank. Tim killed him, executed him. Why?

"Why did you kill him? What did he do, Tim?"

"I finally found somewhere to put my hate, didn't I? I never did anything to George, but Frank was there then, keeping me on track with the whole good and evil thing. Frank wasn't there when Luke Ryland walked on a technicality after killing two women."

"Ryland was that internet killer, the guy who outed you." Now I remember. Tim killed him? And confessed to Frank? And then he quit the force. It's starting to make sense now, and I don't like what I'm thinking.

"Yeah, he was. And no matter how much I told myself I was doing good, saving the women of New Orleans from a predator, that was only half of it. I didn't kill Luke Ryland because he was a murderer who was going to kill again. That wasn't the only reason, anyway. I killed him because I hated him, and because I hated myself. Hated what I'd become, without Frank there to keep me honest, keep me a good cop."

"Tim, you are a good cop." But even I can hear the doubt in my voice, and he sure as shit doesn't miss it. The doubt's not about that, not exactly, but it doesn't matter. I can't lose him the way I lost Joe. He looks at me bitterly.

"So that's it, Bill. You know everything, all my secrets. No more confessions. The question is, what are you going to do now?"

"I don't know, Tim. This is--fuck. I need to think about this, need to get out of here, okay? I'll be back--I don't know when, but I will be back. Don't give up on me, all right?"

He sucks in his breath, just like I hit him or something. But he doesn't say anything, doesn't try to explain it away.   
He just nods, resigned already to losing me, and for a second I just want to kiss him and tell him it's okay, I still love him. But I'm too fucking pissed for that. Why do I always pick the self-destructive type? So I don't kiss him. Instead, I put on my shoes and socks and walk out the door.

****

I stay awake for an hour, then two, after Bill leaves, hoping he'll come back. Charnelle comes in at midnight, hangs my IV, but she doesn't say anything. I wonder if she even notices that Bill's not here. Charnelle's good at her job, but she's uncomfortable with our relationship, and she seems to cope by ignoring everything except my physical needs. And that's fine with me tonight. If Marilyn were here, asking me what was wrong, I don't think I could take it.

I think about calling Frank, but I'm not sure I could handle that, either.

Eventually, I fall asleep again. I wake when they bring the breakfast tray in at 8. It takes me a minute to realize what feels so wrong--the mattress next to me is empty for the first time in two weeks. My eyes burn as I pick at my breakfast.

Then I see the sleeping form in the sofa bed. He came back. He may still leave, but not without talking to me first. I'll have that, if nothing else, and maybe, just maybe, I'll have more.

Bill must hear me, because he stirs, sits up, runs his hand through his hair. I quickly rub my eyes and put on my glasses. He's looking at me, no expression at all on his face. There are dark circles under his eyes, and I can smell the tobacco permeating his clothes from across the room.

He doesn't say anything, just gives me a little smile, one that doesn't reach his eyes, and heads into the bathroom. I hear the shower start a moment later. I push my breakfast around on the plate a little longer, manage to eat a couple bites, but what I really want to do is throw it across the room.

I hear the shower go off, but long minutes pass before Bill emerges, fully dressed. He walks slowly over to the bed and sits down in the chair next to me.

"Haven't eaten much there, Tim."

"Wasn't hungry." I look at him, searching his eyes for any clue to what he's thinking, what he's feeling. "I'm glad you came back," I venture cautiously.

"I'm not going anywhere, Tim. Thought you knew that. I told you I'd come back, didn't I?" His voice is quiet, calm, but I hear the anger in there as well.

"I'm sorry, Bill."

"Just what the fuck are you sorry for? For what you did? For why you did it? Or are you sorry that Pembleton came and made you tell me about it?"

The anger's out in the open now, his blue eyes fiery, his hands clenched.

"When exactly had you planned to tell me about this? What the fuck am I supposed to do with this information, especially since I know damned well you weren't going to tell me until Pembleton told you to? That's not buddies, Tim. You know everything about me, everything important, and I thought it went the same for you. Pembleton tells me I don't know you as well as I think I do, and I'm pissed, because I figure he doesn't know what the fuck he's talking about, but it turns out he's right, isn't he?"

"Wait a minute, Bill. Hold on. All right, I'm sorry I did what I did, for the reasons I did. And I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier. I did try, once, that day at Wahweap Creek. But by then I was halfway in love with you, and I didn't want to lose you.

"Then, after... everything, I was so fucking relieved, so happy just to have you here--for the first time, Bill, I wasn't even thinking about Ryland, about Baltimore, Frank, any of it. And yes, I am a past master at shutting off unpleasant memories, you know I've had a lot of practice at that. So it was easy to just go with what felt good, what felt better than anything ever had, despite the fact that I was tied down to this fucking bed.

"But when Frank came, oh, he figured it out right away, used those famous detective skills and deduced the truth, that I hadn't told you yet. And that pissed me off, that he could still figure things out about me before I did, that he knew I had to tell you or I'd lose you. And I'm sorry for all of that, too. But there's one thing I'm not sorry for, and that's the fact that I love you, Bill. I love you, and I know that after what I told you, that maybe you can't love me, because I am not a good man. I'm a murderer, same as that sick fuck, Eisen, same as all the people I put away when I was working Homicide."

He's shaking his head, slowly, and I can see that he's getting even angrier.

"You just don't get it, do you? You know, for a detective, a fucking FBI agent, you can be awful fucking slow on the uptake!"

He's furious. He gets up, starts pacing around the room, sticks an unlit cigarette in his mouth.

"Let me make one thing perfectly, crystal, clear. I do not give a flying fuck what you did to that motherfucker. Far as I'm concerned, he got what he deserved. From what you've told me, he was about to go off and murder some more women, and you saved their lives by killing him. All well and good. No problems there."

I stare at him in shock as he comes back over to the bed, leans over, gets in my face.

"What I do give a fuck about, Tim, is that you've been holding out on me. I know you well enough to figure this thing's been eating at you for what, three years, give or take? And when you told your partner, when you told Frank, you expected him to arrest you, right? Put you, a fucking cop, in jail, where you'd get the punishment you thought you deserved. You wouldn't have lasted six months in there before someone killed you, and Frank knew it, and he couldn't allow that to happen. He wouldn't punish you, so maybe you even thought of blowing your brains out, just like Joe did, huh?"

I can't help but react to that, and he nods.

"Yeah, thought so. Frank, he manages to talk you out of that, but that's not the end of it. You go off and join the fucking FBI, go undercover, practically get yourself killed that way. And you never tell me, the man you say you love, about the fact that you've got a fucking death wish the size of fucking western Canada!"

"You think I have a death wish? That's what you're upset about? But Bill, it's okay, I'm not going to do anything stupid--"

He interrupts me. "Don't you fucking lie to me, Tim. Do not lie to me. Did you or did you not think about killing yourself after you killed Ryland?"

He's still in my face, eye to eye, and all I can do is nod. I start to say something again, but he points his finger at me and glares until I close my mouth.

"Now you fucking listen to me, and you listen good. I am not going to lose someone else I love. Joe, he never told me what was going on, how he was really feeling. I should have known, when Bucky told him never to come back, or when he smashed the Strat, but I didn't, and he never told me, and then he blew his fucking brains out on the sidewalk. He had a bottle with him, and two glasses, did you know that? He was waiting for me to join him after the show. Maybe he would have talked to me then, I don't know, maybe I could have done something, but we didn't talk, and we'll never talk again, and that taught me a lesson. Had to get hit over the fucking head with it, but I finally learned that you have to talk to people you care about. That's buddies--talking about things. Okay?"

I nod again.

He moves back, then, sits back down in the chair, takes my hand. I let go of a breath I don't remember holding. My hand in his is trembling, and he squeezes it reassuringly.

"So I gotta know, Tim. Where are you with this Ryland thing? Are you going to wait until you're out of here, then find some other way to risk your life, keep doing that until someone does to you what you did to him? Or are you going to talk to me, talk to a therapist, talk to Frank for all I care, until you talk yourself out of this fucking suicide wish? Can you do that? Because if you can't--" he pauses, makes sure I'm listening. "If you can't do that, Tim, then there's no point in me sticking around."

"I--I want to do that. I'm not sure how. Talking about things, important things, like Ryland, that's not easy for me. But I want this--want you--more than I've ever wanted anything, and I'll do whatever it takes to keep you." I take a deep breath. "Bill, I did think about eating my gun, after I killed Larry Moss, after Ryland. And maybe you're right--maybe joining the FBI, going undercover, that was another way to that, I don't know. But now, right now, I promise you that all I want to do is be with you."

He leans forward, kisses me softly, all the storm gone from his eyes. "Okay then. New deal. You, me--talking, no holding back. You, me, talking. Say it with me, Tim."

"You, me, talking, no holding back."

"You, me, talking, no holding back. Done. I love you, Tim. Don't--don't you dare fucking check out on me, understand?"

"I won't, Bill. I love you." I pause, look up into those eyes, full of nothing but love now. "You're sure you're okay with what I did? It doesn't bother you that your lover is a--a murderer?"

"Let's just say I consider it justifiable homicide."

He kisses me again, slower this time, a deliberate kind of kiss, showing me with his lips and tongue that he means it, he's not going anywhere.

"Tim, what was the nightmare? I know it must have been about Ryland, but what was it?"

I shiver, and he gets out of the chair, sits down on the bed next to me, pulls me into his arms.

"It's okay, Tim. You, me, talking, no holding back, remember?"

"You, me, talking, right. Okay. The dream." I take a breath, let myself feel the warmth of his arms around me, his breath against my ear.

"I'm back at the station, at the computer there, trying to trace him before he kills again. And the clock ticks down and the computer's on my website, then it's on the woman, tied up, and he's there, you know, ready to kill her. Then all of a sudden I'm the one tied up--you know how it is, when you're dreaming, and you just are the other person?--and Ryland's laughing at me, telling me all about how he loves New Orleans, where the women are easy. And I try to get my gun out, but it's not there. And then you're there too, tied at my back like you were that night, and he's got his knife out. I tell him to leave you alone, scream at him not to hurt you, please, he can do anything to me, just don't hurt you, but it doesn't work. He, he kills you, and I'm just standing there, watching; I can't do anything. Then Ryland's face changes to Eisen's, and he's got a big rock in his hand. And then I wake up."

Bill doesn't say anything for a long moment, just holds me, squeezing tight, stroking my arms.

"Fuck, Tim. No wonder you woke up sweating like that. Just hearing about it's probably going to give me fucking nightmares." He looks at me, brushes the hair off my face, tells me in no uncertain terms that I will be seeing a therapist. "We'll get you hooked up once we get home," he adds with a smile.

I let out a sigh, releasing the tightness in my chest, allowing myself to believe that he's still here, he still wants me. I tremble again, and he continues to hold me, saying, "It's okay. Ryland's dead, he can't hurt you anymore, and Eisen's in jail. I'm here, Tim. Not going anywhere, no one's gonna hurt either one of us, okay? Not as long as we keep talking."

I sigh again, feel myself relaxing some more. "Can we do more than just talk, sometimes?"

"Just try and stop me, Secret Agent Man," Bill replies, leaning over to kiss me again. This time he doesn't stop until there's a knock at the door.

"Who is it?" I manage to call out, Bill smothering a laugh in my chest.

"It's Assistant US Attorney Roberts, Agent Bayliss--here to take your deposition?"

Shit. Forgot that was happening today--it's been put off so many times. Bill smiles at me, rebuttons the top three buttons of my shirt, straightens my hair, and moves back to the chair next to me, grabbing his guitar to cover his erection. I pull the tray table closer and invite Ms. Roberts to join us, hoping my face isn't as flushed as it feels.

Four exhausting hours later, lunch arrives, and we break for the day. I miss Bill, whose presence was not permitted during the deposition.

"I appreciate your patience, Agent Bayliss. I realize this is difficult to talk about, and that you're still healing, physically and emotionally, from your ordeal. I just want to let you know how much I admire your courage. Without you, who knows how long it would have taken us to shut that cult down. I'll be back tomorrow morning to continue this, if that's okay."

"Yes, that's fine, Ms. Roberts."

"Would you like me to bring Mr. Boisy in? I believe he's been waiting outside, and I need to confirm the date for his appearance before the grand jury."

"Yes, would you?"

"Of course."

And in he walks, carrying his guitar case, smiling that smile at me, coming right over to the bed and planting a big wet one on my cheek, and all the pain and tension left over from the deposition is gone in a flash. Because he's here, and he's not going anywhere.

You, me, talking, no holding back. Yeah, I can do that. Just try and stop me, Mr. Hollywood Rock Star.

****

I go back to the hospital the next afternoon, not sure what to expect. I knock on the door, hearing the sounds of a guitar as it opens. When I enter the room, I see Boisy on the couch under the windows, playing and singing softly to himself, scribbling notes now and then.

"Don't mind Bill, Frank--when he gets started on a song, he doesn't notice anything else that's going on. In half an hour or so, he'll look up and wonder when you got here."

Tim is smiling at me, a true, happy, open smile, the kind of smile I haven't seen on his face (with the exception of yesterday, when Boisy woke him) for years. I think the last time I saw that smile was when he came by to visit the house after Frank Jr. was born. And it's never been possible not to smile back when Tim's got that expression on his face, so that's what I do, my heart suddenly lighter. Maybe things went better than I expected.

"You look better today, Tim. How are you feeling?"

"I am better, thanks. Still feeling a little crappy from the antibiotics, didn't get much sleep last night, had to sit through four hours of deposition today, but I'm feeling pretty damned good, all things considered."

"Any particular reason you didn't sleep well?"

Oh, he knows what I'm asking. His face gets serious, but there's no anger, no pain, in those clear brown eyes.

"You can probably figure that out on your own, but I'll tell you anyway. Yeah, I told Bill last night. And he left, for awhile, but then he came back, and then we had a fight, but we worked it out."

"You worked it out." He hears the doubt in my voice.

"Yes, Frank, we worked it out. Bill and I, we have a new deal. We talk, no holding back. You know, he had a lot more of a problem with the fact that I hadn't told him than he did with what actually happened."

"Did he?" Somehow, I'm not surprised by this. From the little I know about Boisy, it seems unlikely he'd be that upset by what even I am beginning to view as somehow acceptable. It becomes harder to maintain my moral certitude with each passing year. And the main reason for that is sitting in the bed across from me.

"So what about us, Frank? What do we still need to work out?"

It's on the tip of my tongue to come back with some sarcastic comment, but I manage to restrain myself. This is important. Tim is important, Lord knows why, somehow worked his way into my heart a long time ago. So I tell him the truth.

"I don't know, Tim. You and I, we've never been very good at communicating with each other, at least not outside the Box."

"Yeah, but we were golden in there, weren't we? Could almost read each other's minds. Why was that so easy, and everything else so hard?"

"We're both... intense... people, Tim. When the two of us focused that intensity on a suspect, we were able to work together, harmonize, play off each other's strengths. But when we focused that intensity on each other..."

"Yeah. No more harmony."

"But a lot of energy."

He nods. "A lot of energy. Sometimes pretty destructive. Knocked out some walls, sometimes."

"Yeah, you were always good at that. Couldn't keep anything from you. You'd just bang, bang, bang away until my resistance was gone."

"Took a lot of banging."

"Damn right it did. Shit, Tim, no one's ever gotten under my skin like you can. No one but Mary."

All of a sudden Tim's got an alarmed look on his face. "Frank, I hope you never--I mean, you know I love you, always will, but I hope you know it was never--"

"Don't worry, Tim, I never feared for my virtue. I admit it, I was a little nervous after you went out with Rawls, but I never thought you were gonna jump my bones."

"God, no! That's just--that's just disgusting, Frank!"

"Are you saying I'm not an attractive man, Bayliss? Because I don't think that's a fair assessment. I happen to be very attractive!"

He pats my hand nervously. "No, no, of course you're attractive, Frank, of course you are. Just--just not to me, not that way."

"Relax, Tim."

"Detective Pembleton, you're not propositioning Tim, are you? You had your chance--he's mine now, and you can't have him."

Boisy appears at my side, grinning at both of us, and Tim starts to laugh. A second later and I'm laughing too, don't even know why, just that it feels good. It feels good to laugh with Tim, and all of a sudden I don't care if I ever hear the name Luke Ryland again.

I look at Tim, and he's looking back at me, and we both know that it's okay. We're okay.

We spend a pleasant afternoon together, but I can see the looks that pass between them. If I were gone, those two men would be all over each other. I'm thankful they're managing to control themselves while I'm here. As I'm getting ready to leave, Boisy comes up to me, says he wants to talk to me a sec.

He walks me outside the room, puts an arm around my shoulder. I let him. Hey, what can I say--the guy grows on you. And he makes Tim happy. And maybe I've mellowed a little in the last few years.

"You and Tim--you're okay?" he asks.

"Yeah, we're okay, Boisy. No worries."

"Good."

"You and Tim are okay too, huh?"

He smiles. "Yeah, we're good."

"You hurt him, I'll hunt your skinny white Canadian ass down."

He laughs. "I believe you. Listen, Frank--what we were talking about last night, Tim's recovery? His surgery is scheduled for next week--they'll be putting him in those external fixators I told you about, and putting a couple more plates in. It's a pretty big deal. He'll be coming off traction, but from what Marilyn and the orthopods tell me, it's not gonna be a fucking picnic, not by a long shot. Any surgery, there's always a risk, we both know that.

"So I was wondering--I don't know when you were planning on going back to Baltimore, and I know the holidays are coming up and all, but would you consider sticking around for awhile? It would mean a lot to Tim, and it--I'd appreciate having somebody there to talk to, during the four hours they tell me this surgery's going to take. So it would mean a lot to me, too. I know you and I didn't exactly start off on the right foot, but Tim cares about you, and I think it would be good if we could be friends. Or at least pleasant acquaintances."

I stare at him a minute. This guy just keeps surprising me. "Let me get this straight. You are asking me, Frank Pembleton, to stick around until some time next week, to give up a significant part of my Christmas break, just so that I can hold your hand during Tim's surgery?"

He doesn't scare off easily, either. He just grins at me like he knows he's already convinced me.

"Absolutely not, Bill. I'm going home to my family."

"Oh, come on, Frank, you know you want to! Go on, give your wife a call--I bet she'll tell you it's okay. You want me to call her for you?"

"There is no way you are calling my wife, Boisy."

"Okay, so you'll call her then?"

"Is this how you always are, Boisy? You're worse than Tim!"

"I'll take that as a compliment. Come on, you can use the phone right here. Frank, seriously, you only just got here. Stick around for awhile!"

"Okay, okay, okay already, Boisy! You're probably right--Mary pushed me into coming out here, so she'll probably make me stay. For a little while. For Tim, okay? For Tim."

He nods. "For Tim. Thanks, Frank."

"Yeah, yeah. Get back in there--he's waiting for you. I'll see you tomorrow."

****

I walk back into the room, feeling pretty damned good about Frank Pembleton. Quelle fucking surprise. I get ready to tell Tim he's sticking around for awhile, but then I realize he's asleep. Again. I've been waiting all fucking day for some time alone with him, and he's asleep.

So I watch him sleep, again. Been doing a lot of that, and I actually like it. I call Billie, wish her a good night, apologize for not calling her yesterday. After awhile, I get into bed with him. He doesn't wake up, not really, but he turns his head towards me, rests his hand on my hip. And he doesn't have any nightmares, not tonight. Eventually I fall asleep as well, and I don't have any nightmares either.

I wake up, some time later, and find him watching me.

"Sorry I fell asleep on you."

I kiss him. "It's okay, Tim. You had a rough day."

"Yeah, but I had plans for the end of it."

"Night shift been in yet?"

"Left about half an hour ago. You slept right through it."

"Yeah, well, I had a rough day, too."

"You still tired?"

"Not that tired, Tim."

"Good."

And you know, Tim and I, we've gotten pretty good at this, the logistics of making love in a hospital bed with one of us in traction. We've gotten pretty good, but the thing is, each time it gets better. We get better. And this time is no exception.

I can't imagine how good it'll be when he can actually move.

The next week is a busy one. Tim finishes his deposition, and I get to testify as well--what a fucking thrill, can't wait for the trial, if there is one, where I'm warned they'll probably try to bring up all my many past indiscretions. I resent the time it takes me away from Tim, but Frank's here to keep him entertained. And it gives me some time to do some research and planning.

Chelle and Kat help me find someone to make the house wheelchair accessible, and Marilyn helps me find a good home care agency. And help for Tim's Christmas gift comes from an unexpected corner--John knows a silversmith in Austin who turns out to have just what I'm looking for. Chelle tells me what she plans to get for Kat, and that blows me away for a while, but then I figure out the perfect gift for them, too, so it works out pretty well.  
They've cut back the FBI surveillance to just one agent at night. I don't have anyone following me every time I go out anymore. Bartlett and Roberts both say that as soon as the Grand Jury stuff is over with, we'll both be safe. I'm not sure I believe that, but I guess they know more about it than I do, and Tim reassures me that, once I get him home, he'll be able to carry a gun again. Tells me he's a crack shot. Like that's supposed to make me feel better--I'll have a man in a wheelchair in my house who happens to be a superior marksman. Fucking guns in my house, yeah, I'm fucking thrilled about that, too. They never used to bother me--fuck, I handled one at Bucky's farm--but after Joe, guns had a reality they'd never had before. I hate them.

Marilyn warns me that it may not be possible to get Tim home by Christmas, but it doesn't really matter. Any day I can get Tim out of here will be Christmas. Neither one of us is exactly Christian, after all, and it's a fucking pagan holiday anyway, right? We'll celebrate it when we want to.

The night before the surgery, we're all on edge. It's fucking weird seeing all the Christmas decorations everywhere when the sun is shining on the red mountains out the window, even weirder than Christmas in LA. We eat a last meal of macaroni and cheese, hamburgers (well, Tim has a veggie burger), french fries, and milk shakes. Tim's not allowed to eat or drink anything after midnight, and that was what he wanted, so that's what we had. He's pretty easy to please in the food department, except for the vegetarian thing, which I don't quite get. But what do you expect from a grown man whose favorite show is Mighty Mouse?

Frank leaves after dinner, so it's just the two of us and the medieval torture device, which will be dismantled in the morning before they take him to surgery. Tim asks me to sing to him, so I get out the acoustic and play him some of the stuff I've been working on, mostly songs about him. Then I ask him if he has any requests, and he gets an embarrassed look on his face.

"Okay, Tim, spill. What horrible song do you want me to play for you?"

"You'll never play it. Even if you know it, which I doubt, you'd never sully your beloved acoustic by playing something so utterly lacking in any sort of edge."

"Try me, Tim. Tonight's a special night. If I know it, I'll play it for you."

He just looks at me. He knows better.

"Okay, I admit it. There are some songs I will not play. But you don't know this is one of them. I don't think you're going to ask me to play you something by the Spice Girls."

He makes a strangled noise.

"Tim. Please don't make me play the Spice Girls, I'm begging you."

"No, Bill, it's not the Spice Girls--"

"There is a god!"

"--it's Neil Diamond."

I stare at him.

"I will not sing to you about any fucking heartlights, Tim. I love you, but I don't love you that much."

"Jesus, Bill, even I have better taste than that! No, it's something he did a long time ago. My mom, she loves him, saw him in concert when I was just a kid, and she had the 8-track of Hot August Night, used to play it all the time. And there was this one song, totally, disgustingly, mushy, I admit, but it reminds me of you."  
And fuck all if I don't think I know what song he's talking about.

"You know, we had that 8-track, too. My mom had a big crush on Neil Diamond. Used to listen to it all the time, drunk, alternately belting it out and, well, crying in her pretzels, if you will."

He laughs at that. "That's not the song, Bill."

"Damned straight it's not. Or it better not be. Not gonna sing that one. Can't believe I'm gonna sing you any Neil Diamond song, but at least it's not the Spice Girls."

"Hey, Chris Isaak covered 'Solitary Man,' and UB40 did 'Red, Red Wine.' Neil Diamond's old stuff's kinda cool."

"You're really up on your Neil Diamond trivia, there, Tim. If you ever tell a fucking soul about this, you'll be sorry. Now shut up a sec--gotta see if I can remember how it starts."

"Bill, I haven't told you which song."

"'S okay--I think I've got it."

I start picking out some chords, trying to remember the tune, the words. And it actually comes back to me. Of course, I could be wrong--he could be thinking of some other song. But somehow I don't think "Girl, You'll Be a Woman Soon" is what he has in mind. So I start playing, humming a little, look up to see, and he's got this totally amazed expression on his face.

Yeah, I was right. So I sing it to him, changing a couple pronouns. Good thing Joe isn't around. Good thing no one is around, because if Tim ever tells anyone, I'd have to kill them. And him. And I don't want to do that.

The next day, everything goes pretty much as planned, at least at the beginning. Tim heads off to surgery, and Frank and I hang out together in the waiting room, getting updates every now and then from one of the OR staff. Then we get a visit from Bartlett and Roberts, and they don't look too thrilled.

The Grand Jury's done its thing, all the bad guys are indicted and in jail, and Tim's safe, they tell me. Then what's the bad news, I ask? Well, the Bureau, wanting proper credit to be given to Special Agent Bayliss, has released his name to the press. Some public relations guy from the Bureau who didn't know his ass from a hole in the wall.

And, well, what with folks in Baltimore who know stuff, and people in Arizona who know stuff, and Eisen's lawyers, who've figured stuff out, they expect that, any minute now, it's gonna hit the presses that a gay cop named Tim Bayliss was behind the Eisen investigation. And that said gay cop has a lover by the name of Billy Tallent, guitarist for Jenifur.

I was wondering when it was going to happen. I knew it would, eventually, but I'm not sure Tim did, and I've been trying not to think about it. Not sure how he's going to react to our personal lives being talked about on Entertainment Tonight. We've never talked about it, about the fact that I'm sometimes subject to the kind of media scrutiny anyone in their right mind would run screaming from. Usually they leave me alone, figuring Chelle and Kat are much more interesting, but a few times a year someone dredges up Joe's suicide and wants to talk to me about it. This will be a whole hell of a lot more exciting for them than that ever was.

Just being outed to the Baltimore City Police was traumatic for Tim. I dread telling him he's about to be outed to the whole fucking world. Frank, of all people, tries to reassure me.

"Listen, Boisy, I really don't think it's that big a deal. You're right, it was really hard for him when Ryland outed him in Baltimore, but that was a totally different situation."

"Yeah, it was. This time the whole fucking country's going to know."

"No, no, that's not the point. See, back then, Tim's whole life was being a murder police, a Baltimore City Homicide Detective. He thought I'd abandoned him, wasn't close to anyone else in the squad, was struggling with the whole Buddhism thing, not to mention his bisexuality. So having one part of his identity, a part he was still struggling with, a topic for discussion in the notoriously homophobic confines of a police force, that was devastating. Because he didn't have anything else to fall back on, not then."

"But he does now. Is that what you're trying to tell me?"

"Damn straight. Look, didn't you tell me Tim's already decided to retire from the FBI?"

"Yeah, but on his own terms, you know? Not railroaded out for being gay, which he isn't, not exactly."

"Uh-huh. Which you aren't either, not exactly--is that what this is about? You're not just worried about Tim here, are you?"

"That's not fucking fair, Frank."

"Isn't it?"

"No, it's not. Listen, this isn't just about me, or Tim--maybe you're right, maybe I am a little worried about it, but not because of that. My daughter--when I first found out about her, her mother tried to deny me any rights because she thought I was gay. Because of the relationship I had with another man, the singer from the band I used to be in. We worked all that out, and it's not that I lied about Joe and me, but once the judge ruled I could have joint custody of Billie, I don't think Mary ever let herself think about that anymore. I know I don't have any problems with being bisexual, and I think Billie's pretty accepting of Tim, but I don't know how Mary's going to react to all of this.

"And the fact is, I live a public life, but up to this point I've been able to keep Billie from being too affected by it. The focus of the media has always been on Kat and Chelle, who never hid their relationship from anyone, and that's kept me, the guitarist, kind of safely in the background. When this comes out, I'm going to be right in the front of it, and Billie's sure to be affected by that."

"Does Mary know about Tim?"

"Of course she does--she brought Billie here to visit, and I told her then."

"How did she react to it?"

I look at him for a minute, taken aback.

"She--she was fine with it, actually. She said she was happy I'd finally found someone." I hear the astonishment in my own voice, and so does Frank.

"So what's the problem, Bill? Yeah, you'll have to work a little harder to protect your daughter, but I think you'll be surprised by Tim's reaction. I think he's gonna be pretty happy to not have to hide that part of his life. He won't have to deal with the conflict between who he is and what he does, not anymore."

"Yeah, maybe you're right."

"Of course I'm right. I'm always right--hasn't Tim told you that?"

"As a matter of fact," I say, laughing, and then Marilyn comes in and tells us that Tim's in recovery, and I get up and head down there. I'll talk to Tim tonight, see how he wants to handle this. See if Frank is right about his reaction.

****

Waking up in Recovery is never fun, no matter how many times it happens, but having Bill there helps. He looks worried about something, though, and as soon as I can string a few words together that make sense, I ask him what's wrong--did something go wrong with the surgery?

"No, Tim, nothing like that. It's just a little PR snafu--we'll talk about it later, okay?"

A public relations snafu--I think I know what that means, and if I'm right, it's almost a relief. Almost, because although I don't mind anyone knowing about my relationship with Bill, I don't know how he feels about it, given his celebrity.

Sure enough, a couple hours later, after I've settled into bed and eaten the lovely clear liquid dinner that's standard post-op fare, he tells me that the news has broken. The FBI announced my name, and within an hour the tabloids broke the story about "Billy Tallent's lover, the mystery agent behind the Church Canyon investigation!" It's the top story on Entertainment Tonight, where they show footage from Brodie's documentary (fortunately not me in my bathrobe) and a clip from a Jenifur video.

"How do you want to handle this, Tim?" Bill asks, his face serious.

"You're the one with a daughter and a career, Bill--how do you want to handle it?"

"Well, I don't want to try to deny it, or hide it. The public's known about Kat and Chelle for a few years, and that hasn't been too much of a problem. But I am concerned about how this is going to affect Billie. And I'm not sure if you realize what it's going to be like once we get you out of here. You have to be prepared for reporters, paparazzi, phone calls--"

As if on cue, the phone rings. It's the first of many calls that night, most of them handled ably by Bill. He talks to Mark, Chelle, and Kat about a statement from the band. They agree to release a brief statement tonight acknowledging our "close, personal relationship," noting that we met just before I went undercover and that Bill assisted in the Church Canyon investigation. They set up a press conference for the morning outside the hospital; I'm gratified when Marilyn agrees to read a statement from me.

I talk to Bartlett, who calls to apologize for how the story broke. His bosses, under pressure from the Republican administration, want to announce my retirement from the FBI. I tell him I have no problem with that, and he shocks the hell out of me by telling me he's put my name up for consideration for the Congressional Medal of Honor. "I doubt it will go anywhere, given who's in the White House, but you deserve it, Tim."

I also talk to Megan Russert, who calls on behalf of her cousin Tim. He wants to interview Bill and me on his weekly CNBC show. I tell her we'll think about it.

I fall asleep as Bill's on the phone with Mary and Billie, not even waking when Bill joins me.

The press conference starts the next morning, and Cheryl sits with me as we watch the live coverage from downstairs. Bill puts on the charm as he introduces Marilyn. She speaks first, prefacing my statement with one of her own. I'm deeply touched by her words, full of warmth and caring. Then she reads my statement, just a few sentences thanking the hospital staff, thanking Bill for his incredible love and support, and a brief description of what went on in Church Canyon, along with a plea for tolerance and acceptance.

Then Bill speaks, first thanking the hospital staff and Marilyn in particular for all her help. He, too, talks about the horrors of Church Canyon and urges tolerance. He pauses for a moment before speaking again, and I realize he's fighting back tears.

"It's no secret," he says, "that Special Agent Timothy Bayliss is an important person in my life. I wouldn't want it to be a secret, because Tim is an incredible man. He has more courage than anyone I've ever met, and his dedication to righting wrongs, especially wrongs committed against children, is a constant source of inspiration for me and anyone else who has ever met him. What he accomplished in Church Canyon almost cost him his life, almost cost me the great gift of having him in my life. If there is any way that I can use the fact that I live in the public eye to fight the kind of hate crimes that went on in Church Canyon and indeed happen every day in every country of the world, I will. Thank you."

With that and a quick wipe at his eyes, he steps away, ignoring the clamor of reporters trying to ask him questions. Marilyn gives him a hug, and I see that she's wiping her own eyes, as is Cheryl beside me. I think I'm still staring in shock at the television when Bill and Marilyn come back into the room.

"Well, what did you think?" he asks me, sitting next to me on the bed. "Because I think it went pretty well, personally."

"Um, yeah. I mean--fuck, Bill, you--what was that?"

"It was me, talking about you. Making a statement."

"I think you embarrassed him, Bill," Marilyn chimes in. "But he was just telling the truth, Tim--you are an inspiration." I must look as horrified as I feel, because Cheryl takes pity on me an announces that it's time for the inspiration to get out of bed.

It's painful to realize how weak I am after all these weeks in bed, but it's mitigated by the utter joy I feel as Bill wheels me down the hall to a sunny waiting area. I catch a couple stares from visitors, especially when Bill beams at the sight of me sitting there, then kisses me. Only one person actually approaches us, a teenage girl asking for Bill's autograph and for a picture with the two of us.

Eventually Bill wheels me back to the room for lunch, but I refuse to leave the wheelchair. I fall asleep before dinner, and they have to wake me up to get me back into bed.

The external fixators still keep my right leg completely immobile, and there are still pins and bars, but there's also something resembling a normal cast around some parts of my leg. I am much more mobile--I can roll from side to side, and in a couple days I'll start using crutches. And for the first time, that night, I can sleep on my side, spooned up against Bill, my leg propped up with a million pillows. It's a wonderful feeling.

And in a week, if all goes well, we'll fly back to LA.


	5. Going Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim and Bill leave the hospital.

It's December 23, and today I leave the hospital. I get my gun back, I get my privacy back, I get my life back. A very different life, with a loss of a different kind of privacy, but with so much more than I've ever had before.   
Today I get to go home with Bill.

Home. With Bill.

I wonder if that should make me more nervous than it does. After all, I've never been to his house. He's certainly never been to my apartment in Baltimore. We haven't talked about it, but it's clear that I'm moving in with him. It's just what we're doing, what's natural after two months of living together in the hospital. Truth is, I can no longer imagine living anywhere else but with him.

We're both thrilled to finally be leaving the fishbowl we've been in all these weeks, but it's still a little difficult to leave. There have been a lot of teary hugs from nurses and other staff the past couple days. Last night they threw a party for us--everyone brought in something to eat or drink, and Marilyn made a cake. Everyone came--all the nurses, the physical therapists, the housekeeping staff, even a couple of the physicians made a brief appearance. And this morning, it's more of the same--smiles and tears and hugs.

I'm leaving for good. If I need any more surgery, it will happen in California, not Arizona. I don't know when or if I'll see any of these wonderful people again, so it's difficult to say goodbye. Bill and I have spent some time talking about what to do to let them know how much they mean to us, and he decided to endow a fund to be used for nursing scholarships, support of Planetree efforts, and physical improvements of nursing lounges throughout the hospital. He insisted on calling it the Timothy Bayliss Fund, and since it's his money, I can't really object. He's also paying for a holiday party for the entire seventh floor staff.

This is the first time I've been presented with such obvious evidence of his wealth. I've always known he is a famous and presumably well-paid guitarist, but it's a little startling to realize just how much money he actually has. It's not as if he flaunts it in any way, other than the fact that he has more guitars than I have suits.

It's definitely a little weird to be moving to California, to Beverly Hills, to go live with a multimillionaire, a man, a famous rock star. Or maybe what's weird is how it doesn't feel weird. In some ways, I think he's having a harder time of it. I've gone through hell and come out the other side, and merely being alive is pretty great; being with   
Bill is more than I ever dreamed possible. After all the changes in my life these past few years, one like this just doesn't seem to bother me.

Bill, though, he's been in a pretty stable situation for the last few years, has gotten settled in his house, has his own routine. I'm a disruption in that routine, have been for the last few months. A pleasant disruption, yeah, but it's still hard to have someone move in to your place. But for now, I think we're both so happy, so in love, that none of that really matters. I mean, come on. A week ago, the man played me a fucking Neil Diamond song.

Now that's love.

I get the star treatment right along with him today. I guess maybe I can get used to that. After a last hug from Marilyn, who insists on wheeling me out personally, we take a stretch limo to a private Lear jet owned by the record label. There are crowds waiting downstairs, reporters, fans, lots of flashbulbs going off, but Bill gets me into the limo in short order, doesn't even seem to notice them. Something else I guess I'll get used to.

Chris called last week, after the news broke. He said the Zodiac's doing well, and so is he. He's hooked up with his new sous chef, and it's pretty serious. We had a long, comfortable conversation--I think we both feel more at ease, knowing we're each in committed relationships. Things ended so awkwardly between us, but we seem to have salvaged a friendship, and I think that pleases both of us.

I look out the window, at the clouds below, comfortable in my padded leather seat, and almost laugh. When I joined the FBI, I had no idea where my life was going. All I wanted was to get out--escape Baltimore, escape my past. I took the undercover assignment as a way to escape even more, and never thought about what would happen after it was over. Bill's probably right about what was really behind my leaving, but I told him the truth last week when I said the only thing I wanted now was to be with him.

I have no idea what I'm going to fill my time with, although Bartlett mentioned the possibility of doing some teaching at Quantico. I know there will be months of physical therapy ahead. After that, who knows. I've begun meditating more, something that's come easier since my time in Church Canyon. It's also easier to stay in the moment with Bill around.

At this particular moment he sits next to me, as always radiating a heat that warms more than just my body. I know without asking that we're both thinking the same thing--soon we will be home, in his house, where we will have the luxury of privacy, of a large, comfortable bed.

His hand rests on my thigh, his fingers stroking lightly. I cover his hand with mine, rubbing my thumb over his knuckles, my pulse quickening. I feel warm breath in my ear.

"Hey there, Tim, how are you doing? Looking forward to getting home?"

"You have no idea," I answer, my voice husky.

He chuckles. "As a matter of fact, I have a pretty good idea, Secret Agent Man, an idea that involves you, me, and no one interrupting us."

"Oh really? Would you care to elaborate?"

"No, I think I'll leave that up to your imagination." Our hands are entwined now, our breathing a little ragged.

"I seem to remember a promise you made me once, a long time ago."

"What was that?"

"I believe your exact words were, 'when you get done with this assignment, I plan on fucking your brains out.'"

"Did I promise that? Well, I guess I'll have to follow through, then."

"I was wondering, Bill. Did you mean figuratively, or literally? Because I was really hoping for literally."

He's quiet for a minute, quiet and still. Shit. Me and my big mouth. I should have known--after what happened to him, when Joe raped him, why did I have to say that?

"I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking--"

"It's okay. I guess I should have realized how that sounded. I shouldn't be surprised that you would want that--I guess it's the next step, or something--"

"It's okay--we don't have to--Bill, I don't need that, really; I love you; it was stupid of me to even mention it."

"It wasn't stupid, Tim. It's something we probably need to talk about. Definitely need to talk about. But let's not talk about it now."

"Sure. As long as you're okay--you're not mad, or upset, or anything, are you?"

He turns, smiles at me, brings my hand up to his face, kisses each knuckle. "I'm not upset or angry. I love you. You're not the only one who's had some fucked up stuff in his life, that's all. We'll talk about it later. Besides, we're going to be landing soon."

"All right. You, me, talking, no holding back, right?"

"You, me, talking, no holding back."

He's quiet through the rest of the flight and during the limo ride out to the house. I close my eyes for a minute in the limo and fall asleep, something I do with alarming regularity these days. Bill wakes me as we pull into his gated driveway.

His house is smaller than I expected, and I'm touched by the fact that he's had ramps installed over the few steps in and around the house. Once the external fixators come off, it'll be easier to manage on the crutches, but for now I still need a wheelchair for all but the shortest of trips. He brings me in while the limo driver carries all our stuff, then gives me the grand tour.

The house is furnished simply but comfortably, the main decor blond wood, a sizeable entertainment center, and lots of guitars. There are four bedrooms. Billie's is filled with posters and toys, the kind of room neither of us had as a child, and we pause in the doorway for a moment, no doubt identical smiles on our faces.

"You're a good dad, Bill."

"I try to be. I've got a good kid. She likes you, you know."

"Yeah?"

"Not as much as I like you, though."

"Good."

And with that he rolls me over to the master bedroom, as sparsely furnished as the rest of the house. I get my gun out of the suitcase, check it, put it in the nightstand. Without another word, Bill helps me out of the chair and over to the bed, kneeling to take off my shoe. I reach out to stroke his hair, and he stops, leaning his head against my thigh, looking up at me, his blue eyes so beautiful they take my breath away.

"I love you, Bill."

In one graceful move he's up, fingers framing my face as he kisses me softly. "Love you, Tim." He starts to unbutton my shirt, but I take his hands in mine, squeezing them apologetically.

"Hold on a minute. We've got all the time we need, and no interruptions, remember? I think maybe there are some things we should talk about, don't you?"

He sighs, then helps me pull my legs up onto the bed, settles the two of us together, sitting up, propped by pillows. He nestles into my arms, leaning his head back against my shoulder, and I kiss the top of his head, smelling his hair.

"Have you ever done it, Tim?"

"Have I ever fucked someone?"

"Yeah, or been fucked."

I nod, knowing he can feel it. "With Chris, just once, he wanted me to, so I did him."

"Did you like it?"

"Yeah, it was great; I mean, it felt great, but it freaked me out, too, you know? Because it was the first time, and because, well, sex with Chris was like this big experiment for me."

"Because it was your first time with another guy?"

"Uh-huh. And the thing was, Chris, he's a great guy--he's gorgeous, smart, really kind-hearted--but I didn't love him. I wanted to, because he was so great, but it was basically just about attraction for me. I mean, he was so confident, you know? He was gay, he was totally out, totally self-assured about it, and I was just this fucked-up mess of attraction and doubt. I didn't know what the fuck I was doing, just that it felt really good and totally terrifying at the same time. And after I fucked him, it was just too weird all of a sudden, and I backed off, and I really hurt him."

"Tim, when you were a kid, with your uncle--did he ever--I mean, what exactly did he do?"

"He never--he didn't rape me, the way Joe raped you. He, uh, he made me touch him, made me watch him, kiss him, that sort of thing. Bill, I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking about that. I just wanted to be close to you, to feel you inside me. I never wanted that with Chris, just with you."

"When you fucked Chris, did he like it?"

"Yes, of course he liked it! Bill, he asked me, he wanted me to fuck him, because he liked it. I was nervous, afraid of hurting him, but we went slow, used lube, you know, and he really, really liked it. That's what freaked me out the most, I think."

"Why?"

"Because I guess I figured he was doing it for me, because he knew it would be good for me, and I didn't realize how into it he was, or something. And it made me realize how strong his feelings for me were, and how I didn't feel the same way about him."

"He was in love with you."

"Maybe. He never said it, but maybe. But I wasn't in love with him. I am in love with you."

He leans back for a kiss, then faces forward again, idly running his fingers up and down my arms. Neither one of us says anything for a few minutes.

"Bill, you said that you weren't even sure what happened with Joe until the next morning, that you were passed out. Is that really what happened?" I'm speaking as gently as I can, worried what his reaction will be, because I've suspected ever since he told me that there was more to the story than he let on.

There's a sharp intake of breath as Bill stiffens, digging his hands into my arms. I squeeze him gently, nuzzle his hair again, murmur that it's okay, and he relaxes a little.

"Yeah, I was passed out, that much is true," he says softly. "But I woke up. I woke up, because it fucking hurt. Felt like I was going to split open. I didn't know exactly what was happening at first, because I was pretty fucked up drunk. Couldn't move--Joe, he was a big guy, not tall like you, but really solid, had me pinned down pretty good, and it felt like there was a burning poker up my ass, and there was nowhere to go, no way to get away. And then he came, yelling in my ear. After, he just covered me up and went to sleep, didn't even notice, or care, that I was bleeding."

"Jesus, Bill. I don't know what to say. I can't understand how he could have done that to you."

"He was a fucker. Joe Dick."

"I'm glad he's dead. Maybe that's not what you want to hear; I know you loved him, but I'm glad he's dead."

"Me too, most of the time. Which sucks, since I still miss him. Miss him, want to yell at him, want to fucking shove my life now in his face, you know? Show him how wrong he was."

"You loved him."

"Yeah, I did. How fucked up is that? Even after he fucking raped me, I still loved him."

"After I told Frank about Uncle George, I went to find him. I don't know what I was going to do to him--confront him, hit him, who knows. But when I found him, he was old and sick, old and sick and alone. And I didn't do anything. I fucking bought him groceries, cooked food for him, until he died. The whole time, for months, I felt sick, I couldn't understand what I was doing to myself, why I was helping this man who made my childhood, even my adulthood, a living hell. I never loved my uncle, but I still helped him."

Bill looks up at me for a minute, nods in rueful understanding.

"When Joe called, told me the story about Bucky, I got right on that plane and headed up to Vancouver. Knowing he'd find some other way to fuck me over, always had, always would. And I'd always let him, because that was the only way he knew to show me he cared. He never fucked with Pipe or John the way he fucked with me. I mean, he fucked with everyone, that was Joe Dick, but it was different with me. With me, it was personal. And I tried to fight it, fought as hard as I fucking could, but Joe always won, always took what he wanted. Until the only thing I could do was take away what he wanted the most--me. And even when I did that, he still won, because then he went one better and fucking killed himself."

"But you're still here. You survived. You made it through all of that, and you came out the other side. You're the strongest person I know."

He laughs at that. "Not that strong. Not strong enough, or the idea of making love to you, in any form, wouldn't fucking terrify me."

"I meant what I said, Bill. I love you, and I would never want you to do something you weren't comfortable with. Believe me, I have absolutely no complaints about our sex life--it's wonderful, it's fucking amazing, I never knew it could be that good." I'm blushing, and also very aware of my growing erection. Despite the serious nature of the conversation, just the thought of how good we are together is all I need to throw an instant boner. Ever since I met him, it's been like puberty all over again.

"But you want this, right? Be honest with me."

I reach my hand up to his face, turn him gently, look into his eyes. "If you wanted it too, yeah. With you. No one else, just you." Then I kiss him, just a soft, quiet kiss, trying to let him know how much he means to me. His lips are soft, answering mine with gentle pressure. He breaks the kiss, and without a word we reposition ourselves until we're laying side by side, facing each other.

"I can't do it, Tim. Not yet, anyway. I couldn't stand it if I hurt you."

"It's okay. Just let it go, all right? It's not important. We don't need to talk any more--unless you want to, that is. Personally, I can think of a better way to pass the time."

"Oh yeah? Does that mean I get to take your clothes off now?"

"As long as I get to take yours off."

"You got a deal, Secret Agent Man." We kiss again, softly at first, as he unbuttons my shirt and I reach under his. We break off the kiss just long enough to shed our shirts, then our lips meet again, more deeply, tongues slicking together. I manage to unbutton his jeans as he pulls my sweats and boxers down, and I groan in frustration as his mouth leaves mine again, this time to get the rest of our clothes off. Then we're both naked, twining arms and legs, luxuriating in the freedom of the open bed.

I lean over him, pushing him onto his back, putting my good leg between his and kissing my way down his body from his forehead to nose, lips, neck, and chest. He moans, grasping at my back as I circle his nipples with tongue and teeth, suckling gently.

"God, Tim, so good to feel you there," and I realize this is the first time we've made love in this position, with me on top. Then all thought leaves my head as he shifts slightly and I feel the sweet friction of our erections rubbing together, both of us slick with need and desire. I feel his fingers on my face, still buried in his chest, and I turn my head, bringing one long, calloused finger into my mouth as we rock together, arousal building with each pulse of my heart, each pulse throbbing in my cock.

Bill reaches his other hand down to my ass, urging me on, both of us moaning now. I release his finger and recapture his mouth in a burning kiss, exploring every inch of his mouth with my tongue, wrapping one hand around our cocks, the other behind his neck, pulling him tightly to me.

His arms are wrapped around my back and ass, pulling me just as tightly to him as I stroke us together. He gasps his way free of my mouth, grabs onto my shoulder with his mouth, biting down with a grunt as he comes. The feel of him exploding beneath me is all it takes to put me over the edge, both of us pulsing out in long bursts, hot and thick.

I collapse on top of him, gasping for breath, as he tangles his fingers in my hair, kissing my neck and shoulder between rasping breaths. I finally find the strength to raise my head and say, "So much for taking our time, huh?"

He laughs weakly. "I think I made a mark on you there, Tim. I don't think I've ever bitten anyone like that before--hope you don't mind."

"Believe me, I didn't mind," I say. "Say, I'm not too heavy for you, am I? I can roll over--"

"No, I like you where you are, as long as your leg's okay."

"What leg? Do I have legs? Because I really hadn't noticed anything below my dick, at least not lately." He laughs again, snakes his arms back around me, and I rest my head on his chest again, listening as his heartbeat gradually slows, loving the feel of his hands gently massaging my back and shoulders.

"You sure you're okay with me here?" I mumble eventually.

"Yeah, I like it," he answers softly.

"Because I think I'm about to fall asleep again."

"Okay. You warm enough? Because I could maybe reach the blanket, if you need it."

"Is it too corny to say you keep me nice and warm?"

I feel a kiss on my temple. "Not as long as you never tell anyone else."

"'kay. Love you."

"I love you, you big sleepy lug."

And the feeling of falling asleep in his arms, waking up in his arms, is worth the sticky mess we'll have to clean off later, worth the soreness in my leg, the imprint of the pins from my leg on his.

****

The truth is, Tim is pretty heavy, and the pins in his leg are digging into my thigh. Also, we're pretty damp and sticky; I think we're going to be plastered together when he finally wakes up. Never mind the drool drying on my chest. But I do like having him here, so I'm willing to put up with all of that and let him sleep. Even fall asleep for a little while myself.

Tim sleeps more than anyone I've ever met. I know he's healing, and I know he's on pain killers, but he still sleeps a fucking ridiculous amount of time. So when I wake up, I nudge him until he stirs. He raises his head and smiles an utterly goofy smile at me, and I forget all about the pins digging into my leg and just grin back at him.

"Feel better, Sleeping Beauty?"

He rolls off me, stretches, and groans. "That wasn't the best idea, was it? I mean, I was really comfortable when I fell asleep, but I think I'm paying for it now, and I can only imagine how you must feel."

"Let's just say I don't think I'll be volunteering as your pillow again. You're heavy, and you sleep way too much."

"I'm just making up for lost time--I haven't slept this well since I started in Homicide. I've got years of sleep to make up for."

"Great. I get to live with someone with fucking narcolepsy." I ruffle his hair to let him know I'm okay with it.

"That's what we're doing, huh? Living together."

"Yeah, it is. I mean, we haven't really talked about it, I guess, but this is it for me. You're it. You and me, together, every day."

"For me, too. Every day. When we're 64 and all that. If you can put up with me that long."

"When we're 64. Yeah. When we're 104, Tim."

"Mmm," he agrees. "When we're 104." His eyes are closing, and I nudge him with my elbow.

He looks at me a minute. "Bill, I know you're not too thrilled about my gun being here, but I really think it's important. Can you put up with that, too?"

"I think I have to, at least for now. But Tim, when Billie's in the house--"

He nods. "It's already got a trigger lock, and I'll keep everything locked up when she's here. I support gun control, you know. I only joined the NRA as Timothy Rawls, never as Tim Bayliss. But we need to be careful."

"Yeah, I know." And I do, more than he realizes.

He squeezes my hand, sighs, and closes his eyes again.

"Tim, if you're going to live to 104 with me, you've got a lot of work to do to get back into shape. You are not going back to sleep now--we both need a shower, and you're getting there on your own fucking power, you hear me?"

He opens his eyes again, looks at me skeptically. "You're not channeling Frank, are you?"

"No, Tim. I'm perfectly capable of ordering you around on my own. And you can look forward to a lot of that from now on. I had a talk with Marilyn and Scott, the head of PT at Good Sam. They told me you needed a slave driver, and I volunteered."

He groans. "Now you tell me, now that you have me at your mercy, stuck in your house!"

"You're only stuck in my house until you can walk out, you know. Come on, up and at 'em--let's get that shower."   
It takes a little more pushing and prodding, but eventually Tim's up on his crutches, slowly making his way to the bathroom, complaining and whining the whole way. I get him settled on the shower chair, right leg covered in a garbage bag, then get into the shower behind him.

He's leaning back into the spray, and he smiles as he feels my arms go around him. He leans even more, resting his back and shoulders against my belly and chest, a blissful expression on his face. I bend forward and kiss him, licking that full lower lip, our faces curtained by the water. Then I straighten up again, let the water run over his head, and reach for the shampoo.

I guess eventually he may want to wash his own hair again, but for now we're both content with the fiction that he needs my help. He obviously loves it, his face even more blissful, occasional groans of pure sensual pleasure escaping his lips as I gently massage his scalp. Once his hair is rinsed, he surprises me by pushing himself up, turning, leaning against the tile, and proceeding to wash my hair. Fuck, no wonder he likes this so much--the simple intimacy of his loving fingers in my hair is unbelievably erotic.

When he finishes with my hair, pushing me back into the spray to rinse, he says, "I've been wanting to do that for a long time." Then he almost loses his balance, winces, and sits back down, this time facing me. I crouch down next to him, concerned, but he smiles at me and reaches a washcloth up to my face.

I've helped bathe him for weeks now, but this is the first time he's had a chance to return the favor. We pass the washcloth and soap back and forth as we silently work our way down each other's bodies, turning now and again to allow for access to backs, under arms, behind ears. As always, I marvel at the beauty of his body, despite the ugly scars on his chest, back, and leg, the loss of muscle from two months of bed rest.

He lovingly runs the soap over my belly, washing the remaining stickiness out of my pubic hair, then lathering my erection, eyes intent, licking his lips. I kneel to do the same for him, then help him up briefly so I can get at his ass. He moans as my soapy fingers massage his cheeks, leg buckling as one finger circles and enters. He really does like that. Maybe soon I'll trust myself enough to do more.

I settle him back on the chair after I'm done, and before I know it he's pulled me to him, hands firmly on my ass, and I feel the warmth of his mouth around me. Yeah, that mouth I first noticed biting into a slice of pizza, it's deep, it's hot, it's moist, and it's moving up and down, tongue flicking, and I can't help but thrust up into that incredible heat and suction.

He takes his time with me, one hand on the base of my cock, keeping me from thrusting as deep and fast as I want to. The other hand moves from my ass to my balls, fondling, stroking, a long finger occasionally seeking brief entrance. It feels good, really good, and I widen my stance a little to give him better access. He stops for a minute, and I know he's thinking, wondering, probably worrying about me.

"Tim, it's okay, it's good," I manage to gasp, thrusting up into his mouth again, and he murmurs agreeably around me, and then I feel his finger pressing more insistently for entrance, moving gently up and into me. It feels strange, a little tight, but then as his finger moves more, it hits something inside me, must be my prostate, and it feels amazing, and I let out a surprised shout.

He freezes, and I reach my hand down into his hair, soft and silky and wet. "Good, Tim. Fucking great, do it again," and he moans and moves his finger again, and I'm thrusting into him, out of control, coming hard as he swallows, practically falling over on top of him, because my legs just won't hold me up any more. I manage to kneel down again, resting my face against his belly as I try to catch my breath.

When I can open my eyes, I see a beautiful sight in front of me--long, thick, twitching with each beat of his heart, waiting for me. I feel his hand behind my neck as he pulls me up for a long, deep kiss, and I can taste myself in his mouth, salty and bitter. That only makes me want to taste him even more, so that's what I do, running my tongue over the tip of his cock, trying to figure out exactly what it is that tastes so good, what subtle differences there are between my taste in his mouth and his taste on my tongue.

He's close, closer than I realized, so I give him what he wants, swallowing him down fast and deep. I ride out his thrusts, letting his hands in my hair guide me until they turn to fists as he comes into me. After I've swallowed every drop, I kiss him again, tastes mingling in our mouths, the shower still beating down on us, the water starting to cool.

He hasn't spoken a word since he washed my hair, and somehow the silence seems appropriate as I turn off the shower. We dry each other off as tenderly as we'd washed each other's hair. The sexuality is well below the surface now, both of us more than sated, but I see the love shining in his eyes and know he sees it shining in mine, and neither one of us needs to speak it aloud.

The companionable silence continues until we're both dressed, until I've helped him out to the couch and turned on the television.

"I have a surprise for you," I tell him, and he grins at me like a boy on his birthday, and I have to kiss that mouth again before I can pop the tape in the vcr and press play. He starts to laugh as the theme song starts.

"You got me a Mighty Mouse tape?"

"Well, I figured I had to find something to keep you occupied while I was at rehearsal. And you can watch it now while I heat up some dinner, okay?"

"Okay," he answers, eyes now firmly locked onto the tv, legs propped up on the couch, engrossed in his own form of Mighty Mouse meditation. Well, at least he won't fall asleep again.

The rest of the evening is quiet, boring, domestic--wonderful. I didn't realize how much I missed being in my own space, and having Tim there with me is the icing on the fucking cake. There are no interruptions for vital signs or nursing assessments. Tim falls asleep early, no surprise there, and I sit up for awhile, working on some songs, making plans with Chelle and Kat for tomorrow night, when they'll be coming over for a Christmas Eve dinner. I catch up on the latest financial statements from my manager, sign some paperwork, wrap a couple Christmas presents, even give John a call to wish him a happy holiday.

And then, when I'm getting tired, I walk into my room, undress, and join the long, warm tangle of arms and legs that's taken over two thirds of my bed. I grumble and nudge him until he wakes up, scoots over, and envelopes me in those long arms again.

"Feel at home, Tim?"

"Mmm-hmm. More than I ever have before," he answers, nuzzling the back of my neck.

"Good. Planning on staying?"

"Long as you'll have me."

"Till we're 104?"

"Till we're 104."

And with that he's asleep again, and so am I, probably all of thirty seconds later.

****

I wake up early, as usual. Bill gives me a hard time about falling asleep so easily every night, but he's the one that has a hard time waking up in the morning. I manage to get out of bed and into the bathroom without waking him, too, despite banging my crutches into the shower stall on my way out. Once he's asleep, he's well and truly asleep--a car alarm going off in the bedroom wouldn't wake him up.

That's one reason I'm glad I've got my gun back. He hates having it there, but he tolerates it, knowing it makes me feel better. He's taken everything Bartlett and Roberts told us at face value, but I keep thinking about how Luther got to Junior Bunk when Terri &amp; Meldrick put him in that hotel room, and all the killers who were paroled or even had their cases dropped. No, I definitely feel better with my gun in the nightstand.

But there are other things I'd rather be thinking about this morning, so I get back into bed, spoon around him again, and enjoy the feeling of our first morning in what I'm thrilled to think of as our bed, in our house.

Once the holidays are over, we'll head back east, clean out my apartment, and make a side trip to DC to appear on the Tim Russert show. Mark's been fending off tons of requests for interviews--everyone from Montel Williams to Barbara Walters wants to talk to us, apparently--and the two of us finally decided that Megan's cousin is probably our best bet. I'm still not exactly clear on what we're going to talk about, although Bill's made mysterious noises about having some sort of an announcement after the first of the year. He says it's a surprise, but that he'll tell me about it soon.

Today's Christmas Eve, but it doesn't feel like it. The holidays have always been a bitch, but Thanksgiving in the hospital was fine, maybe because it was so strange. Maybe Christmas will be okay for the same reason--I'm in sunny Los Angeles, not Baltimore, after all, and I won't be spending any time with any blood relatives, not even my mom. Tonight, we'll have dinner with Chelle and Kat, and tomorrow afternoon Billie will arrive from Regina to spend a week with us.

It's definitely a departure from my usual holiday routine of going to my mom's, seeing all the relatives, and then going off to the Waterfront and getting stinking drunk, trying to forget, ending up puking my guts up into the kitchen sink because I can't stand to go into the bathroom. The memories hit me like a truck, all of a sudden, just like they always do, the images of that hated bathroom, the hated voice saying "Shhh, Timmy."

I shiver, then bury my nose in Bill's hair, inhaling his scent, feeling his warm body pressed up against mine, willing myself to believe that this Christmas will be different. I concentrate on feeling his chest gently moving with each breath, eyes flickering beneath the lids as he dreams, his hands twitching slightly. He is real; he is here, now, with me; this is real; this is true. I breathe in, and then out, repeating to myself that I am here, now, with him.

My heart slows again, my stomach settles, as I lie beside this man I love on the morning of Christmas Eve. I've known him less than a year, but I feel I've known him all my life. He stirs a little in his sleep, moving his arms to clasp mine to his chest, shifting to bring his body even closer to mine. I rest my lips against the back of his neck, content for now just to enjoy the sensation of warmth, the faint taste of sweat, the tickle in my nose as my breath stirs the short blond hairs where his hairline meets his neck. He turns his face towards me, mumbling a little in his sleep, and I kiss his eyelid, his temple, his cheek, the corner of his mouth, feeling my hardening cock pressing up against his ass.

Even asleep, he's responding to me, breathing harder, tongue sneaking out to lick his lips. I decide it's time to wake him--as much fun as I'm having, I'll have even more if he's awake and actively participating. He may be able to sleep through a car alarm, but he's been so attuned to my needs in the hospital that he wakes instantly when I softly say his name.

He's startled for a moment, I think, although he hides it well. I wonder regretfully if he's bothered by the insistent pressure of my erection against his ass as he wakes up. But then he reaches for my hand, kisses my knuckles as he so often does, a gesture I find immeasurably sweet and tender, and murmurs, "Hey, morning, my own bed, my own retired FBI agent; this is a good thing, I think."

"Morning, our bed, my own Hollywood Rock Star; definitely a good thing," I answer, running my fingers down his chest to a cock that is definitely happy to see them.

"Our bed," he repeats softly. "I like the sound of that."

"Get used to it. Our bed. Our house. Right?"

"Our bed, our house, our life." He wriggles up against me. "Your dick, my ass."

"What?" I can't believe I heard that right. Or maybe he's just making a statement about our current positions, relative to each other. He couldn't mean anything else, could he?

"You heard me, Tim," he says, turning to face me, his eyes somehow managing to be both serious and positively twinkling with mirth. "Your dick, my ass. If that's okay with you, that is, because I know you kind of had other plans."

"Bill--are you sure? I mean, I thought if we did anything, it would be easier the other way. Easier for you."

"I want this, Tim. Told you before, fuck, I would have done it with Joe if he'd only asked right. Yeah, it scares me, but I want it. Want you. It'll give me something better to remember, something right to supercede the wrong. And I think then maybe I'd feel okay about doing it to you, because I'd know how it could be, not just how it was with Joe. Does that make any sense?"

I nod, feeling stunned. "Yeah, it does. But you've got to promise me, Bill, if this is something you really want, you've got to promise me you'll tell me to stop if you need me to. You've got to let me know if you need me to slow down or stop, or if I do anything that doesn't feel right. Will you do that?"

"I don't think there's any way I'll need to do that, because I know you won't hurt me," he says, then adds quickly, seeing I'm about to protest, "but yes. I will tell you if I need you to slow down or stop."

"No holding back."

"No holding back. I promise. But first things first--you're nice and minty fresh, but I'm not, and there's something in the bathroom we're going to need, so if you'll excuse me, I'll be back in a minute." He leans over for a quick kiss, caressing my face, then saunters into the bathroom.

And I'm left lying in bed, completely thrown, and totally hot. I'm remembering how it felt to be inside Chris, and just imagining sharing that with Bill practically makes me moan out loud. Soon enough he's back, kissing me fiercely, putting a tube of K-Y down on the bed next to me.

"So, how do we do this?" he asks, finally letting me come up for air. "Could we do it face to face? Because I think I'd like that."

As soon as enough oxygen is in my brain to allow the synapses to fire, I start to laugh, because he's practically quivering with energy, not even giving me time to respond before he pulls me up to a sitting position, straddling my hips, devouring my mouth with his even as I laugh.

I think about telling him to slow down, decide it's pointless, and give in to the inevitable, reaching for the lube. I manage to fumble it open and get some on my fingers, probably spilling half of it on the bed. I pull my mouth from his, grab his chin with my other hand, make sure he's looking at me as I reach back and stroke gently down and in. His eyes open wide for a second, only to close as he leans his head back, moaning in undisguised pleasure. Oh yes. So far, so good, but I'm still watching carefully as I add a second finger. That gets me another deep, intense kiss, his tongue moving in tandem with my fingers, and I can feel wet streaks on my belly from his dick rubbing against mine.

I add a third finger, slowly working it into tight, rippled heat, and he tenses up for just a minute. I stop, start to take my fingers out, but he glares at me until I put them back. He takes a few deep breaths, then I feel the constriction ease a little, then a little more. I kiss his neck, then his ear, still working my fingers in and around, feeling my way as he continues to relax and open, moaning again, a beautiful sound.

All of a sudden he's pulling up, pulling away, and I wonder what I've done wrong, but then he kisses me again and says, "Okay, Tim, okay, now," the last word a command grunted out as he repositions himself over me and starts to lower his body onto mine.

"Wait, wait," I manage to growl, giving me just enough time to slick my lubed fingers over my cock before he presses down again, insistent. I guide the tip to the opening, then let him take control, my hands on his hips just for support as he eases slowly down, hissing a little until I'm past the first tight ring of muscle.

"Slow, Bill, don't let me hurt you," I gasp, but he gives me a wicked grin and pushes down a little more. He's so tight, so hot, so good. It's almost impossible to stay still, not to move, but I remind myself how important it is, how important he is, and manage it, marveling at the intensity I'm feeling. With Chris, I'd been up against his back, and it had been incredible, but this is so much more than anything I've ever felt before, Bill's sweating chest and neck in front of me, the soft heat of his erection against my belly, oh jesus I'm all the way in, and Bill's swearing under his breath, and I'm making some sort of noise, I don't even know what, because I'm beyond any conscious thought at this point.

Then he rocks forward a little, both of us gasping as I rub up against his prostate, and I hear myself saying please, fuck, Bill, and he says yes, okay, and I thrust into him, stroking my hand on him at the same time, and I don't even know which one of us comes first, both of us overwhelmed and screaming and shuddering together, inside and outside, feeling his contractions around mine and mine in his until at last the pulsing stops and we come back to ourselves, soaked in sweat and shaking.

I come back to myself a little more, realize he's shaking with more than release, and the dampness on his face isn't just sweat. I know without him saying a word that this is another kind of release, one he needs, and I wrap my arms around him and pull his head down to my shoulder. His arms come up and around me then, grabbing so tight I know I'll have bruises later, and he turns his head a little so that his lips are at my ear. I can't make out what he's saying at first through the sobbing breaths he's taking, but then I get it.

"I never knew, never fucking knew it could be like that, it could have been like that, Tim, why couldn't it have fucking been like that, but it never would have been like that with him, just with you. Just with you, Tim, just with you, never could have been like that with Joe."

And all I can do is hold him, tell him it's okay, I love him, and marvel once again at the trust he's placed in me. I know he's never shown this raw vulnerability to anyone else, and that includes Joe. To the rest of the world, even to friends like Kat and Chelle, he's still the edgy former punk, only rarely allowing an brief glimpse of the intelligent, sensitive man within. He's open and loving with Billie, but fiercely protective as well, never exposing her to the legacy of pain he holds within him. I'm the only one he lets all the way in.

So I gently ease him off my softening cock, pull us into a more comfortable position, and I hold him until he's done, done with Joe Dick, hopefully for good.

****

I knew it would be good. I was scared, sure, would have been fucking terrified if I'd given myself time to think about it (which I didn't), but I knew this was different, this was going to be good. Yesterday, in the shower, I'd gotten enough of a hint to know it could feel great. And sex with Tim always managed to be amazing, because it was with Tim.

But this was beyond good, beyond amazing, beyond anything I'd ever experienced before. I hadn't felt this combination of physical pleasure and terrifying intensity since the first time we made love that night in Las Vegas, and even that was nothing compared to this. I'm barely conscious of the tears running down my cheeks, but he notices and pulls me close, and before I know it I've grabbed on to him as tightly as I can, words jumbling out of my mouth and into his ear between gasps for breath.

It hurts, just a little, when he pulls out, but the pain is gone immediately and I'm left lying in his arms, hearing the love and concern in his voice as he murmurs reassurance. I take a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh, moving to kiss the fingers stroking the last few tears away.

"Are you okay?" he asks softly.

"More okay than I've been in years, I think," I answer him. "I think I just laid Joe's ghost to rest, maybe for good."

"He may still come back sometime--ghosts have a way of doing that." He's speaking from experience, I know, and I turn to look into those clear brown eyes.

"Any ghosts of holidays past visiting you, Tim?"

"Fuck no," he smiles, but there's a little pain there, too. He knows I see it, acknowledges it with a nod. "Earlier, before you woke up, just a little," he admits. "But not like it usually is. This time, I just concentrated on being here with you, and it was okay. And now, it's way better than okay."

"I would say that's the fucking understatement of the year, Secret Agent Man."

He laughs, kisses me, and then we move into a morning of the same kind of wonderful, boring domesticity we shared last night, complete with Frosted Flakes and Mighty Mouse. I put every single "Very Special Christmas" cd on the changer, figuring anything more traditional might trigger some bad memories for Tim, something I definitely don't want to do. He ropes me into meditating with him before lunch, fussing to get me into the proper sitting posture ("hey, if I can't sit properly, at least I can get you to"). I last about five minutes before I start to fidget, but he's still there a half hour later, and when he looks up, his eyes are full of peace.   
I might have to give it another try.

Kat and Chelle show up a couple hours later and take over my kitchen. They sit Tim up with a chopping board on his lap and generally order both of us around. I'm not that bad a cook, and they know it, but they pretend I'm totally clueless and tease Tim about saving him from some sort of culinary disaster.

After an admittedly fabulous meal, Chelle gets a gleam in her eye and announces it's time for presents. We all do pretty well--I get veggie cookbooks and cooking lessons, they get FBI sweatshirts and Lakers tickets, Tim gets visits from a yoga instructor. Kat stares, then squeals in delight, when she opens the turkey baster from Chelle, and both of them cry when they open the antique crib I got them from P.E.I.

Tim presents me with reservations for three for a two-week trip down the Colorado in the Grand Canyon next September. I think I might have mentioned once that I thought it would be fun, but somehow he figured out how much I'd like it, so now Billie, Tim and I will be going. I bet he had to pull some strings to get the tickets--I'd checked when I was in Page that first time, and there's over a two year waiting list.

He's a little puzzled by the long box I hand him, especially when he realizes how heavy it is, but he oohs and ahhs when he sees the silver handle and polished wood, tells me it's not a cane, it's a work of art. I tell him it's a cane and he's going to be using it soon if I have anything to say about it. He kisses me and calls me a slave driver again.

Before Kat and Chelle and I can pull together our surprise for Tim, the phone rings. It's Frank, so I leave him with the phone while the three of us go into Billie's room, where I've hidden the stuff. I'm struck by a sudden fit of nerves, and they reassure me that he's going to love it, whether or not he wants the job that goes with it.

****

I get off the phone with Frank, wondering what they're doing in Billie's room. Maybe they're putting together some present for Billie I don't know about, so it'll be ready when she gets here tomorrow. It was nice of Frank to call, even though I know damn well Mary put him up to it. I talk to her, too, promise Bill and I will come over for dinner when we're in Baltimore in a couple weeks. It'll be good to see Olivia and Frankie again.

Then Bill comes back out, followed closely by the two women, who are smiling, excited about something. Bill looks excited too, and a little nervous. He sits down next to me and hands me a small package, a cd I think. I open it to find a mock-up of the next Jenifur release, which is strange, since they haven't even started recording it yet, and a copy of a press release. Bill opens up the cd, shows me the handwritten liner notes. There's a dedication: "To the bravest man we know, Tim Bayliss, with love and gratitude from Bill, Chelle, and Kat." I look up, start to thank them, but Bill takes my hand, tells me to read the press release.

It's dated January 1st, and it opens with a paragraph describing the Church Canyon investigation. Then it says, "Jenifur is proud to announce their one million dollar endowment of the Adena Watson Memorial Fund, established by William Boisy to provide education and advocacy against childhood sexual abuse. A portion of the profits from every upcoming Jenifur release and tour will go to this fund, as well as 100% of the profits from their next album.

"The first grant of the Adena Watson Memorial Fund will go to care for the children who survived Church Canyon. Jenifur and Bill Boisy would like to recognize the incredible contributions Tim Bayliss has made to his life and the lives of countless others." Below that, in Bill's handwriting, is "I love you, Secret Agent Man."  
I turn to Bill, speechless, tears in my eyes. He folds me into his arms, holding me as I held him this morning, murmuring the same words of comfort. My thanks are muffled by his chest and my tears, but I know he hears them, understands how much this means to me. Kat and Chelle come over and join us on the couch.

"I don't know what to say. This is amazing. I can't believe you're doing this--it's wonderful. This is a great thing you're doing," I manage to babble.

"There's a little bit of a catch, Tim," Kat says.

"Yeah, a fund like this, it requires someone to oversee it," Chelle adds. "Someone who knows the issues."

"Someone dedicated, committed to helping kids," Bill says. "Like a certain retired FBI agent I happen to know, who happens to be between jobs."

"Job's yours, if you want it, Tim," Kat finishes. "We'd be happy to put that on the press release, too."

Bill takes my hand again, squeezes it. "You'd be helping the living, Tim. Helping kids. What do you think?"

"I--I think I'd like that."

He squeezes my hand again. "Good. It's settled, then."

There are kisses and hugs all around, and then the women get ready and leave. We're alone again, at least until Billie arrives. But there's still one more present I have for Bill, so once he settles back down next to me, I hand it to him with a kiss. "Merry Christmas, Bill."

"Merry Christmas, Tim. What's this?"

"Open it."

He does, looking curiously at the small, black, leather book on a key ring.

"A keychain? Some sort of little black book? I don't need one of those anymore--not that I ever really did, you understand."

"Yeah, tons of groupie sex, I know," I say, smiling at him. "It's not a book, exactly--open it, see the snap?"

He undoes the snap, reads the inscription in the front (Christmas 2002, With love from Tim), then flips to the pictures--one of me, taken by Marilyn in the hospital; one of Billie, her latest school portrait. Then he flips to the back, sees the other picture Marilyn took, one of me and Billie together on the hospital bed. I thought we'd never get that picture, but finally he went out of the room long enough for Marilyn to take it.

"It's kind of like a locket, see, but I couldn't exactly give Billy Fucking Hollywood a heart to wear on a chain around his neck. So I figured you could carry around this funky keychain, and no one would ever know but you and me."

He runs his finger over the pictures, murmuring, "No one but you and me." He looks up, runs his fingers over my face. "I think I'll show Billie, too, okay?"

"Yeah, that would be good," I say, smiling, taking his hand in mine and kissing the palm.

"You know, for you, I'd wear a fucking heart on a fucking chain."

"Your secret's safe with me. I won't ever tell anyone you're a sensitive new age putz."

"You'd better not. I know where you live, and at least until your leg's all healed, I could kick your ass."

"I suspect you could kick my ass any old time."

"Then it's a good thing I never will. Come on, let's go to bed."

"Isn't it a little early for you?"

"Did I say anything about sleeping?"

****

Christmas in prison isn't that bad. I just play the innocent, God-fearing part I've been playing my whole life. The guards watch out for me, and my lawyer worked out a deal, used my age and the fact they didn't have a whole lot of evidence against me to get me a short sentence in a low-security prison. No one even noticed how closely I was watching for television stories on Billy Tallent. I sat in the common room and watched the press conference in Phoenix, and no one cared.

My lawyer, the one my Holy Father recommended, thought I could get off if I went to trial. But he wanted me to testify, tell the jury what I told him, and I couldn't do that. Lying to the lawyer was easy, but I don't know if I could do it after swearing on the Bible. Besides, I thought maybe I could learn some stuff in jail. So I told him to make a deal, and eventually he agreed, and in six months (maybe three, since I'm definitely on good behavior), I'll be released.

Then I can complete my Holy Father's mission.


End file.
